“By the way, will you touch that bell again?—oh, here he comes. Sam,” he said, addressing a servant, “get me up a bottle of soda-wather. Will you have a glass of soda, John? I dipped a little too deep last night.”
“No, sir, thank you,” replied Purcel, “I was moderate last night; and at all events soda is rather cold for such a day as this is.”
“Well, then can't you stiffen it with a little brandy?”
“No, thank you, I won't touch anything at present. I almost wish, as I was saying,” he proceeded, “that there was the slightest touch of cowardice in you, naturally; because if it could be proved in connection with your official intrepidity, you would deserve everything that a government could bestow upon you.”
“Faith and honor, that is certainly putting the argument in an extremely new point of view, and I agree with you, John; that is—that—let me see—the more cowardly the man the braver the magistrate. Well, I don't know that aither.”
“No, no!” replied John, “I don't mean that.”
“Well, what do you mane? for I thought I undherstood you a while ago, although find that I don't now.”
“I mean,” proceeded the other, “that when a man who is naturally cowardly—I don't mean, of course, a poltroon, but timid—proves himself to be firm, resolute, and intrepid in the discharge of his duties as a magistrate, such a man deserves a civic crown.”
“A what?”
“A civic crown. Of course you know what that is.”