“Peter,” I said, “if there is any insult offered to Mr. Melton while on my land, I’ll take it as to myself, and I will not contest the county. I pledge my honor to this.”
“Shure a little bit av a fight wudn’t be amiss.”
“I won’t have it.”
“The pond below is convaynient.”
“Silence, sir!”
“Tim Moriarty, the boy that dhruv him from the station, only wants the word for to land him in Brierly’s Pool”—a great slimy ditch about half a mile from the gate lodge.
I’m afraid I swore at my retainer.
“Wirra, wirra! is there to be no divarshin at all, at all?” he muttered to himself as I ordered him to let go the mare’s head.
Miss Hawthorne suddenly appeared upon the steps.
“Bon voyage,” she gaily cried. “Go where glory waits you.”