“Why?”
“Why, because Smith gave him the thrashing he deserved, and the thrashing he’s not likely to forget in a hurry either!”
“I don’t understand,” said Hawkesbury. “What has Smith to do with my friend Masham?”
“Just what he has to do with any other blackguard,” retorted I, warming up.
“Batchelor, you are forgetting yourself, I think,” said Hawkesbury. “I hope what you are saying is not true.”
“If you mean about Masham being a blackguard,” said I, “it’s as true as that he is your friend.”
“I really don’t know what all this means,” said Hawkesbury, haughtily. “I must ask Masham himself.”
“I’m afraid you won’t find him,” I said. “He nearly murdered the boy who was with us at the time. And as the report went out that the child was actually dead, he is prudently keeping out of the way for the present. I’m sure he will be—”
“Excuse me, Batchelor,” said Hawkesbury, interrupting. “I really haven’t time to talk now. Kindly get on with your work, and I will do the same.”
I may not have derived much good by this edifying conversation, but I had at least the satisfaction of feeling that Hawkesbury now knew what I thought of his friend.