Part 47 (1/2)
”And I'll warrant he deserved it, Bev.”
”I think so,” said Barnabas; ”it was in the wood, d.i.c.k.”
”The wood? Ah! do you mean where you--”
”Where I found her lying unconscious.”
”Unconscious! And with him beside her! My G.o.d, man!” cried the Viscount, with a vicious snap of his teeth. ”Why didn't you kill him?”
”Because I was beside her--first, d.i.c.k.”
”d.a.m.n him!” exclaimed the Viscount bitterly.
”But he is your friend, d.i.c.k.”
”Was, Bev, was! We'll make it in the past tense hereafter.”
”Then you agree with your father after all?”
”I do, Bev; my father is a cursed, long-sighted, devilish observant man! I'll back him against anybody, though he is such a Roman. But oh, the devil!” exclaimed the Viscount suddenly, ”you can never ride in the race after this.”
”Why not?”
”Because you'll meet Carnaby; and that mustn't happen.”
”Why not?”
”Because he'll shoot you.”
”You mean he'd challenge me? Hum,” said Barnabas, ”that is awkward!
But I can't give up the race.”
”Then what shall you do?”
”Risk it, d.i.c.k.”
But now, Mr. Smivvle, who from an adjoining corner had been an interested spectator thus far, emerged, and flouris.h.i.+ng off the curly-brimmed hat, bowed profoundly, and addressed himself to the Viscount.
”I believe,” said he, smiling affably, ”that I have the pleasure to behold Viscount Devenham?”
”The same, sir,” rejoined the Viscount, bowing stiffly.
”You don't remember me, perhaps, my Lord?”
The Viscount regarded the speaker stonily, and shook his head.
”No, I don't, sir.”
Mr. Smivvle drew himself up, and made the most of his whiskers.
”My Lord, my name is Smivvle, Digby Smivvle, at your service, though perhaps you don't remember my name, either?”