“Faith, then, I will invite him here,” said my host. “But I warn you, Mr. Ritchie, that he is a trigger set on the hair. If he does not fancy you, he may quarrel with you and shoot you. And he is in no temper to bectrifled with to-day.”
“I am not an easy person to quarrel with,” I answered.
“To look at you, I shouldn't say that you were,” said he. “We are going to the court-house, and I will see if I can get a word with the young Hotspur and send him to you. Do you wait here.”
I waited on the porch as the day waned. The tumult of the place had died down, for men were gathering in the houses to discuss and conjecture. And presently, sauntering along the street in a careless fashion, his spurs trailing in the dust, came Nicholas Temple. He stopped before the house and stared at me with a fine insolence, and I wondered whether I myself had not been too hasty in reclaiming him. A greeting died on my lips.
“Well, sir” he said, “so you are the gentleman who has been dogging me all day.”
“I dog no one, Mr. Temple,” I replied bitterly.
“We'll not quibble about words,” said he. “Would it be impertinent to ask your business—and perhaps your name?”
“Did not Mr. Wright give you my name?” I exclaimed.
“He might have mentioned it, I did not hear. Is it of such importance?”
At that I lost my temper entirely.