This didn't seem to satisfy him, though. He kept on lookin' around, as though he'd lost something. I guessed he was hunting for that blasted cane.
"See here," says I. "You get the decision, and there ain't goin' to be any encore. I've retired. I've had enough of that game to last me until I'm as old as you are, which won't be for two or three seasons on. If you're dead anxious for more, you wait until Mr. Gordon comes back and challenge him. He's a sport."
But Sir Peter seemed to be clear off the alley. "My good man," says he, "I—I don't follow you at all. Will you please tell me where I am?"
Now say, how was I to know where he thought he was? What was the name of that place—Briskett Arms? I didn't want to chance it.
"This is the same old stand," says I, "right where you started an hour ago."
"But," says he—"but Lord Winchester?"
"He's due on the next trolley," says I. "Had to stop off at the gun-factory, you know."
Ever try to tear off a lot of extemporaneous lies, twenty to the minute? It's no pipe. Worse than being on the stand at an insurance third degree. I couldn't even refuse to answer on advice of counsel, and in no time at all he had me twisted up into a bow-knot.
"Young man," says he, "I think you're prevaricating."
"I'm doin' me best," says I; "but let's cut that out. P'raps you'd feel better if you wore the bucket awhile."