"If you like you can take it lying down, and you can summon assistance while you are taking it; but you'll take it somehow--that you bet."
Mr. Pownceby, lying on the floor, looked up at Mr. Pratt standing over him.
"Let me get up." He got up. The blow had cut the skin, and the blood was trickling through. With his handkerchief he staunched the flow. "In America, Mr. Pratt, they may think the sort of thing that you propose heroic. In England they consider a row of any sort ridiculous."
"Consider! It isn't what they consider I'm thinking of, it's how you're going to take it."
Mr. Pownceby fixed his glance on Mr. Pratt's keen black eyes. He smiled.
"Take it? I'll take it fighting, like the converter of Colonel Quagg!"
"I thought you would. I smelt it coming on."
As he spoke Mr. Pratt placed his revolver on the mantelshelf. Mr. Pownceby was still smiling.
"Do you propose to settle it now?"
"I do. I propose to settle it before you leave this room."