“Hang me, if I know what you mean,” says he. And luckily for me, Lovel giving a shrug of disgust, and a good-night to me, stalked out of the room, bed-candle in hand. No doubt, he thought his wretch of a brother-in-law did not well remember after dinner what he had done or said in the morning.
As I now had the Blacksheep to myself, I said calmly, “You are quite right. There was no talk about a book at all, Captain Baker. But I wished to see you alone, and impress upon you my earnest wish that everything which occurred this morning—mind, everything—should be considered as strictly private, and should be confided to no person whatever—you understand?—to no person.”
“Confound me,” Baker breaks out, “if I understand what you mean by your books and your ‘strictly private.’ I shall speak what I choose—hang me!”
“In that case, sir,” I said, “will you have the goodness to send a friend of yours to my friend Captain Fitzboodle? I must consider the matter as personal between ourselves. You insulted, and as I find now, for the second time—a lady whose relations to me you know. You have given neither to her, nor to me, the apology to which we are both entitled. You refuse even to promise to be silent regarding a painful scene which was occasioned by your own brutal and cowardly behaviour; and you must abide by the consequences, sir! you must abide by the consequences!” And I glared at him over my flat candlestick.
“Curse me!—and hang me!—and,” &c. &c. &c. he says, “if I know what all this is about. What the dooce do you talk to me about books, and about silence, and apologies, and sending Captain Fitzboodle to me? I don’t want to see Captain Fitzboodle—great fat brute! I know him perfectly well.”
“Hush!” say I, “here’s Bedford.” In fact, Dick appeared at this juncture, to close the house and put the lamps out.
But Captain Clarence only spoke or screamed louder. “What do I care about who hears me? That fellow insulted me already to-day, and I’d have pitched his life out of him, only I was down, and I’m so confounded weak and nervous, and just out of my fever—and—and hang it all! what are you driving at, Mr. What’s-your-name?” And the wretched little creature cries almost as he speaks.
“Once for all, will you agree that the affair about which we spoke shall go no further?” I say, as stern as Draco.
“I shan’t say anythin’ about it. I wish you’d leave me alone, you fellows, and not come botherin’. I wish I could get a glass of brandy-and-water up in my bed-room. I tell you I can’t sleep without it,” whimpers the wretch.
“Sorry I laid hands on you, sir,” says Bedford sadly. “It wasn’t worth the while. Go to bed, and I’ll get you something warm.”