The Child Wife - Майн Рид

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looked at him, though, and he at you. I thought you were going to have it out between you, there and then!”

      “Aw—aw; he understands me bettaw—that same individual.”

      “You knew him before, then?”

      “Slightly, vewy slightly—a long time agaw.”

      “In your own country, perhaps? He appears to be an Englishman.”

      “Naw—not a bit of it. He’s a demmed Iwishman.”

      Maynard’s ears were becoming rapidly hot.

      “What was he on your side?” inquired the junior of Swinton’s new acquaintances, who appeared quite as curious as the older one.

      “What was he! Aw—aw, faw that matter nothing—nothing.”

      “No calling, or profession?”

      “Wah, yas; when I knew the fellaw he was an ensign in an infantry wegiment. Not one of the cwack corps, yaw knaw. We should not have weceived him in ours.”

      Maynard’s fingers began to twitch.

      “Of course not,” continued the “swell.”

      “I have the honaw, gentlemen, to bewong to the Gawds—Her Majesty’s Dwagoon Gawds.”

      “He has been in our service—in one of the regiments raised for the Mexican war. Do you know why he left yours?”

      “Well, gentlemen, it’s not for me to speak too fweely of a fellaw’s antecedents. I am usually cautious about such matters—vewy cautious, indeed.”

      “Oh, certainly; right enough,” rejoined the rebuked inquirer; “I only asked because it seems a little odd that an officer of your army should have left it to take service in ours.”

      “If I knew anything to the fellaw’s qwedit,” continued the Guardsman, “I should be most happy to communicate it. Unfawtunately, I don’t. Quite the contwawy!”

      Maynard’s muscles—especially those of his dexter arm—were becoming fearfully contracted. It wanted but little to draw him into the conversation. One more such remark would be sufficient; and unfortunately for himself, Mr Swinton made it.

      “The twuth is, gentlemen,” said he, the drink perhaps having deprived him of his customary caution—“the twuth is, that Mr Ensign Maynard—or Captain Maynard, as I believe he now styles himself—was kicked out of the Bwitish service. Such was the report, though I won’t be wesponsible for its twuth.”

      “It’s a lie!” cried Maynard, suddenly pulling off his kid glove, and drawing it sharply across his traducer’s cheek. “A lie, Dick Swinton! And if not responsible for originating it, as you say you shall be for giving it circulation. There never was such a report, and you know it, scoundrel!”

      Swinton’s cheek turned white as the glove that had smitten it; but it was the pallor of fear rather than anger.

      “Aw—indeed! you there, Mr Maynard! Well—well; I’m sure—you say it’s not twue. And you’ve called me a scoundwell! And yaw stwuck me with yaw glove?”

      “I shall repeat the word and the blow. I shall spit in your face, if you don’t retract!”

      “Wetwact!”

      “Bah! there’s been enough pass between us. I leave you time to reflect. My room is 209, on the fourth storey. I hope you’ll find a friend who won’t be above climbing to it. My card, sir!”

      Swinton took the card, and with fingers that showed trembling gave his own in exchange. While with a scornful glance, that comprehended both him and his acolytes, the other faced back to the bar, coolly completed his potation, and, without saying another word, reascended the stairway.

      “You’ll meet him, won’t you?” asked the older of Swinton’s drinking companions.

      It was not a very correct interrogatory; but, perhaps, judging by what had passed, the man who put it may have deemed delicacy superfluous.

      “Of cawse—of cawse,” replied he of Her Majesty’s Horse Guards, without taking note of the rudeness. “Demmed awkward, too!” he continued, reflectingly. “I am here a stwanger—no fwend—”

      “Oh, for that matter,” interrupted Lucas, the owner of the Newfoundland dog, “there need be no difficulty. I shall be most happy to act as your second.”

      The man who thus readily volunteered his services was as arrant a poltroon as could have been found about the fashionable hostelry in which the conversation was taking place—not excepting Swinton himself. He, too, had good cause for playing principal in a duel with Captain Maynard. But it was safer to be second; and no man knew this better than Louis Lucas.

      It would not be the first time for him to act in this capacity. Twice before had he done so, obtaining by it a sort of borrowed éclat that was mistaken for bravery. For all this he was in reality a coward; and though smarting under the remembrance of his encounter with Maynard, he had allowed the thing to linger without taking further steps. The quarrel with Swinton was therefore in good time, and to his hand.

      “Either I, or my friend here,” he added.

      “With pleasure,” assented the other.

      “Thanks, gentlemen; thanks, both! Exceedingly kind of you! But,” continued Swinton in a hesitating manner, “I should be sowy to bwing either of you into my scwape. There are some of my old comwades in Canada, sarving with their wegiments. I shall telegwaph to them. And this fellaw must wait. Now, dem it! let’s dwop the subject, and take anothaw dwink.”

      All this was said with an air of assumed coolness, of which not even the drinks already taken could cover the pretence. It was, in truth, but a subterfuge to gain time, and reflect upon some plan to escape without calling Maynard out.

      There might be a chance, if left to himself; but once in the hands of another, there would be no alternative but to stand up.

      These were the thoughts rapidly coursing through Mr Swinton’s mind, while the fresh drinks were being prepared.

      As the glass again touched his lips, they were white and dry; and the after-conversation between him and his picked-up acquaintances was continued on his part with an air of abstraction that told of a terrible uneasiness.

      It was only when oblivious with more drink that he assumed his swagger; but an hour afterward, as he staggered upstairs, even the alcoholic “buzzing” in his brain did not hinder him from having a clear recollection of the encounter with the “demmed Iwishman!”

      Once inside his own apartment, the air of the nobleman a as suddenly abandoned. So, too, the supposed resemblance in speech. His talk was now that of a commoner—intoxicated. It was addressed to his valet, still sitting up to receive him.

      A small ante-chamber on one side was supposed to be the sleeping-place of this confidential servant. Judging by the dialogue that ensued, he might be well called confidential. A stranger to the situation would have been surprised it listening to it.

      “A pretty night you’ve made of it!” said the valet, speaking more in the tone of a master.

      “Fact—fac—hic’p! you speak th’ truth, Frank! No—not pretty night. The very reverse—a d-damned ugly night.”

      “What do you mean, you sot?”

      “Mean—mee-an! I mean the g-gig-game’s up. ’Tis, by Jingo! Splend’d chance. Never have such ’nother. Million dollars! All spoiled—th’ infernal fella!”

      “What fellow?”

      “Who d’ye ’spose I’ve seen—met

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