Auguste Henri, who had continued his draughts intemperately, first turned pale and then blustered and vinously vapoured that he would not go at any man’s dictation—he didn’t owe any apology to “ce niais.”
“You’ve got to go,” said Blinders calmly, but with conviction. “You needn’t make any apology for insulting him as you did. But you must stand up to the rack, or you can’t stay here.”
So Blinders quietly led off his man, cursing in French like the rattling of a locomotive. They found Peter Skerrett and Sir Com waiting behind the hill. The latter had his coat off, and was tramping this way and that, like a polar bear in a cage.
“Your name is Pierre Le Valet,” said Ambient. “You needn’t lie about it. Skewwett, show Blinders the handkerchief. I’ve been sure for some time you were one of those damn thieves that gouged me in Pawis. Now I know it by your looks and by that name. You’ve behaved like a blackguard to-day, and I’m going to lick you, if I can, on the spot. You know, Blinders, what the fellow has been doing here—cheating evewybody.”
“Take off your coat, Mr. Le Valet,” said Blinders, “and thank your stars you’ve one gentleman to thrash you and another to stand by and see you’re not killed.”
The detected blackleg made a treacherous rush at Ambient, furious and intending to try some shabby trick of a savate, but a solid one, two smote his countenance and floored, or rather, turfed him. As he did not come up to time, Ambient took from Blinders a light Malacca joint and wallopped the skulking wretch until he began to scream for mercy. By this time, the facial one, two had developed into two ugly black eyes. “Hot nubbless” was unpresentable, and Peter and Blinders led him off to a boat and sent him away, swearing vengeance spitefully.
“What can he do, Peter?” asked Blinders.
“Harm, I’m afraid, to someone,” replied Peter, thinking how he had come into possession of the handkerchief and doubting much whether he had done right to show it. “What shall we say of his absence—that perfidious Albion and proud Gallia had a contest as to who was victor at Waterloo?”
“What have you done with Monsieur De Châteaunéant?” asked Mrs. Budlong, looking sharply at the two, as they walked back.
“He had a bad head,” replied Peter innocently, “and thought he would be better at home. We have charged ourselves with his excuses.”