“I don’t want you,” he growled.
“Oh! you don’t,” still in the same calm tone.
“No.”
“You’re certain?”
“You’ve had your answer, my gentleman. Go back to your luncheon.”
“Not for one moment. I’ve not quite done with you yet. I have heard your observations to this helpless old man”—his voice quivering, his eye flashing—“your brutal insolence.”
“Sir!” starting as if he had been stung.
“Your ruffianly comments,” continued the other. “You knew that your eighteen pence was your armor, and that you could insult both him and his country with impunity. Now, my good fellow, I am an Irishman, and, only that I happen to be in a very particular hurry, I’d compel you to eat that chop.”
“What do you mean, sir?” he gasped.
“Precisely what I say,” replied the other.