"Low scoundrel!" cried one of the young gentlemen in lemon-coloured gloves, recognising his former antagonist.
"There's the rest of it for you, my fine fellow," retorted Cutts, and the tumbler whizzed within an inch of Young Shrewsbury's maccassared locks.
A rush was made up the staircase by several of the aggravated natives; but Cutts stood at bay like a lion, and threatened instant death to the first person who should approach him. The commotion was at its height when I recognised the voice of Mr Ginger.
"Cutts, is that you? come down this instant, sir!" and the crestfallen Saxon obeyed.
"Freddy, where are you?" cried my uncle.
"Here!"
"A pretty business you two fellows have been making of it!" said Scripio, with wonderful mildness. "But never mind; let them laugh who win. We've done the trick for you!"
"Indeed, uncle! how so?"
"The Biggleswade bill has passed, and I've sold your shares at nineteen premium."
"Then I have"——