“The sooner the better, sir!” said the Colonel, fuming with rage.
“The sooner the better,” hiccupped Captain Grace, with many oaths needless to print—(in those days, oaths were the customary garnish of all gentlemen's conversation)—and he rose staggering from his seat, and reeled towards his sword, which he had laid by the door, and fell as he reached the weapon. “The sooner the better!” the poor tipsy wretch again cried out from the ground, waving his weapon and knocking his own hat over his eyes.
“At any rate, this gentleman's business will keep cool till to-morrow,” the militia Colonel said, turning to the other king's officer. “You will hardly bring your man out to-day, Captain Waring?”
“I confess that neither his hand nor mine are particularly steady,” said Waring.
“Mine is!” cried Mr. Warrington, glaring at his enemy.
His comrade of former days was as hot and as savage. “Be it so—with what weapon, sir?” Washington said sternly.
“Not with small-swords, Colonel. We can beat you with them. You know that from our old bouts. Pistols had better be the word.”
“As you please, George Warrington—and God forgive you, George! God pardon you, Harry! for bringing me into this quarrel,” said the Colonel, with a face full of sadness and gloom.
Harry hung his head, but George continued with perfect calmness: “I, sir? It was not I who called names, who talked of a cane, who insulted a gentleman in a public place before gentlemen of the army. It is not the first time you have chosen to take me for a negro, and talked of the whip for me.”
The Colonel started back, turning very red, and as if struck by a sudden remembrance.