“Why, no, sir, I am not worried. I fought a duel in my own day,—over a lass, it was.”
This time Grafton's smile was not forced.
“Over a lass, was it?” he asked, and added in a tone of relief, “and how do you, nephew?”
Mr. Carvel saved me from replying.
“'Od's life!” he cried; “no, I did not say this was over a lass. I have heard the whole matter; how Captain Collinson, who is a disgrace to the service, brought shame upon his Majesty's supporters, and how Richard felled the young lord instead. I'll be sworn, and I had been there, I myself would have run the brute through.”
My uncle did not ask for further particulars, but took a chair, and a dish of tea from Scipio. His smug look told me plainer than words that he thought my grandfather still ignorant of my Whig sentiments.
“I often wish that this deplorable practice of duelling might be legislated against,” he remarked. “Was there no one at the Coffee House with character enough to stop the lads?”
Here was my chance.
“Mr. Allen was there,” I said.
“A devil's plague upon him!” shouted my grandfather, beating the floor with his stick. “And the lying hypocrite ever crosses my path, by gad's life! I'll tear his gown from his back!”