“Major,” said the captain, “why are you going down to the World office?”
“To kill the dog who penned and published this calumny,” replied the major, as he handed the captain a marked copy of the World.
The old captain laughed heartily and tried to infuse the major with a jovial spirit, but he would not be infused. His face was very white, and the lines about his mouth had a hard, set expression, like a tiger ready to spring. “I would n’t pay any attention to it at all,” said the captain, soothingly.
“Fewer’s blood, sir,” hissed the major, “alone can blot out this contemptible insult. He has defamed my character, and, by the Eternal, he shall pay the price.”
“Hold on, Major,” said Captain Osborn, “I am your friend in this matter, and I cannot permit you to make a mistake. Suppose now that we force the World to run off another edition containing an ‘amende honorable,’ or something of that sort—what then?”
“I do not believe,” said the major, reflectively, “that he will do it; but if he will, and bring out the issue to-day—a full issue, mind—I will then let him off with a horsewhipping.”
“Well, now, that’s better,” said the captain, shaking hands with him, as if the affair were settled. “You stay right here, Major, until I come back.”
When Captain Osborn arrived at the World office, he found Frank Fewer, Esq., seated in a rickety old chair, engaged in wrapping bundles of papers preparatory to sending them away.
“Good morning, Captain,” said Fewer, while an idiotic grin covered his face.
“Good morning,” returned the captain, “have n’t sent away this week’s papers yet, have you?”