The prey escaped, the two marshals preferred not to be bruised further and called a truce. Virginian No. 2 was quite groggy and hors de combat. Crackers, the dog, had pounced upon his fellow-huntsman as he lay, and was smiling at him with very white teeth. At this moment, with a neighbour flash, bang went the big thunder-gun and down came the deluge. The two gentlemen took refuge within, leaving the vanquished to scamper for their carriage with such speed as they were capable of. As the heroes re-entered the house, they met Mrs. Tootler rushing forward with a double-barrelled gun and silver fish-knife. The black cook, with a distinct cuisiney odor of fatted calf, was in the van, armed with a gridiron and pitcher of steaming water. This reserve was, however, needless as the Prussians at Waterloo, and there was no pursuit.
“Well, Waddy,” said the host, “how are you? Knuckles lame?”
“No,” replied the guest, “my man was rather cushiony about the chops. Neither of us was much hurt.”
“Capital little shindy!” said Tommy, glowing with satisfaction. “I think I shall take a station of the Underground for the chances of such an appetiser now and then. I haven’t felt such a meritorious hunger for ages. Very likely we’ll be arrested in the morning.”
Battles in a worthy cause win favour with the fair. Mrs. Cecilia looked a little anxiously for wounds, but there were none save what a stitch might repair. She plucked a rose for each, as a palm of victory.
At dinner, after the asphodel cauliflower, the lotus celery, the pommes d’amour tomatoes, and the amaranthine flower-adorned fruits, the friends talked over this mêlée, sipping meanwhile their nectar coffee, and wielding the nephelegeret sceptre of tobacco. Mrs. Tootler was not to be weeded out. They could not spare her presence, blithe and débonnaire, nor in the discussion her unembarrassed womanly rectitude.
“You must be indignant, Tommy,” said Ira, “at the intrusion of those kidnappers.”
“Unfortunately our moral sense on these subjects is too much degraded,” answered Tommy. “I am angry, of course, but I do not think half enough of the infernal shame to that poor darkey. He must go to Canada, just as much an exile as any of the foreigners we make such disturbance about.”
“I may seem rather ignorant,” said Waddy, “after my long absence, but tell me, do men with the social position of gentlemen here accept office from a government that is willing to make and execute such laws as this Fugitive Slave Bill?”
“Why not? Mere social position does not make men gentlemen. They call themselves conservatives.”