The betrothal was announced in the columns of the Morning Post, and its most immediate effect was to bring Admiral Taverner to Brook Street with a copy of the paper under his arm, and an expression of strong indignation on his face. He wasted no time in civilities, and not even the presence of Mrs. Scattergood had the power to prevent him making known his mind. He demanded to know what they were all about to let Peregrine make such wretched work of his future.
“Miss Harriet Fairford!” he said. “Who is Miss Harriet Fairford? I thought it had not been possible when I read it. ‘Depend upon it,’ I said (for Bernard was with me), ‘Depend upon it, it is all a damned hum! The lad will not be throwing himself away on the first pretty face he sees.’ But you don’t speak; you say nothing! Is it true then?”
Miss Taverner begged him to be seated. “Yes, sir, it is quite true.”
The Admiral muttered something under his breath that sounded like an oath, and crumpling up the paper threw it into a corner of the room. “It does not signify talking!” he said. “Was there ever such an ill-managed business? D—n me, the boy’s no more than nineteen! He is not to be getting married at his age. Upon my soul, I wonder at Worth! But I daresay this is done without his knowledge?”
Miss Taverner was obliged to banish the gleam of hope in her uncle’s eyes by replying quietly that the betrothal had been announced with the Earl’s full consent.
The Admiral seemed to find this difficult to believe. He exclaimed at it, blessed himself, and ended by saying that he could not understand it. “Worth has some devilish deep game on hand!” he said. “I wish I knew what it may be! Married before he is twenty! Ay, that will mean the devil to pay and no pitch hot!”
Mrs. Scattergood, at no time disposed in the Admiral’s favour, shut up her netting-box at this, and said in a tone of decided reproof: “I am sure I do not know what you can mean, sir. Pray, what game should my cousin be playing? It is no bad thing, I can tell you, for a young man inclined to wildness to be betrothed to a respectable female such as Miss Fairford. It will steady him, and for my part I have not the least doubt She will make him a charming wife.”
The Admiral recollected himself. “Mean! Oh, d—n it, I don’t mean anything! I had forgot you were related to the fellow. But Perry with his fortune to be throwing himself away on a paltry baronet’s daughter! It is a pitiful piece of work indeed!”
He was evidently much put out, and Miss Taverner, guessing as she must the real reason behind his annoyance, could only be sorry to see him expose himself so plainly. She had no means of knowing what else he might have said, for the footman opening the door to announce another caller the conversation had to be abandoned.
This second visitor was none other than the Duke of Clarence, who came in with a smile on his good-humoured face, and a bluff greeting for both ladies.
Miss Taverner was distressed that he should have come when her uncle was sitting with her, but the Admiral’s manners when confronted by Royalty underwent a distinct change. If he did not, with his red face and rather bloodshot eyes, present a very creditable appearance, at least he said nothing during the Duke’s visit to mortify his niece. His civilities were too obsequious to please the nice tone of her mind, but the Duke seemed to find nothing amiss, so that she supposed him to be too much in the way of encountering such flattery to think it extraordinary. He stayed only half an hour, but his partiality for Miss Taverner, which he made no attempt to conceal, did not escape the Admiral’s notice. No sooner had the Duke made his bow, and gone off, than the Admiral said: “You did not tell me you was on such easy terms with Clarence, my dear niece. This is flying high indeed! But you will be very ill-advised to encourage his attentions, you know. Ay, you may colour up, but you won’t deny he is in a way to make you the object of his gallantry. But there is nothing to be hoped for in that quarter. These morganatic marriages are not for you. Nothing could be worse! Think of Mrs. Fitz-Herbert, gone off to live at Golders Green! Think of that poor creature Sussex married in Rome—and she was of better birth than you, my dear, but it was all annulled, and there she is, I don’t know where, with two children, and a beggarly allowance, quite cast-off!”
“Your warning, sir, is quite unnecessary,” said Miss Taverner coldly. “I have no intention of marrying the Duke of Clarence even if he should ask me—an event which I do not at all anticipate.”
The Admiral evidently felt that he had said enough. He begged pardon, and presently took himself off.
“Well, my love,” remarked Mrs. Scattergood, “I should not wish to be severe on a relative of yours, but I must say that I do not think the Admiral quite the thing.”
“I know it,” replied Miss Taverner.
“It is quite plain to me that he does not like to think of Perry with a nursery-full of stout children standing between him and the title. You must forgive me, my dear, but I do not perfectly know how things are left.”
“My uncle would inherit the title if Perry died without a son to succeed him, and also a part—only what is entailed, and it is very little—of the estate,” Judith answered. “It is I who would inherit the bulk of the fortune.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Scattergood thoughtfully. She seemed to be on the point of making some further remark, but changing her mind merely proposed their ordering the carriage and driving to a shop in Bond Street, where she fancied she would be able to match a particularly fine netting cotton.
Miss Taverner, having a book to change at Hookham’s Library, was quite agreeable, and in a short time both ladies set forth in an open barouche, the day (though it was November) being so extremely mild that even Mrs. Scattergood could not fear an inflammation of the lungs, or an injury to the complexion.
They arrived in Bond Street soon after two o’clock and found it as usual at that hour very full of carriages and smart company. Several tilburies and saddle-horses were waiting outside Stephen’s Hotel, and as Miss Taverner’s barouche passed the door of Jackson’s Boxing Saloon she saw her brother going in on Mr. Fitzjohn’s arm. She waved to him, but did not stop, and the carriage drawing up presently outside a haberdasher’s shop she set Mrs. Scattergood down and drove on to the library.
She had just handed in Tales of Fashionable Life, and was glancing through the volumes of one of the new publications when she felt a touch on her sleeve and turned to find her cousin at her elbow.
She gave him her hand, gloved in lemon kid. “How do you do? I believe one is sure of meeting everyone at Hookham’s, soon or late. Tell me, have you read this novel? I have just picked it at random from the shelf. I don’t know who wrote it, but do, my dear cousin, read where I have quite by accident opened the volume!”
He looked over her shoulder. Her finger pointed to a line. While he read she watched him, smiling, to see what effect the words must produce on him.
“ I am glad of it. He seems a most gentleman-like man; and I think, Elinor, I may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life, ”
“ Me, brother! What do you mean? ”
“ He likes you. I observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it. What is the amount of his fortune? ”
“ I believe about two thousand a year. ”
“ Two thousand a year? ” and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added: “ Elinor, I wish with all my heart it were twice as much for your sake. ”
A laugh assured Miss Taverner that this passage had struck her cousin just as she believed it must. She said, closing the volume: “Surely the writer of that must possess a most lively mind? I am determined to take this book. It seems all to be written about ordinary people, and, do you know, I am quite tired of Sicilians and Italian Counts who behave in such a very odd way. Sense and Sensibility! Well, after Midnight Bells and Horrid Mysteries that has a pleasant ring, don’t you agree?”
“Undoubtedly. I think it has not yet come in my way, but if you report well of it I shall certainly bespeak it. Are you walking? May I be your escort?”
“My carriage is waiting outside. I have to call at Jones’s for Mrs. Scattergood. I wish you may accompany me.”
He was all compliance, and having handed her into the carriage, took his seat beside her, and said with a grave look: “I believe my father has been to call on you this morning.”
She inclined her head. “Yes, my uncle was with us for about an hour.”
“I can guess his errand. I am sorry for it.”
“There is no need. He considers that Perry is too young to be thinking of marriage, and in part I agree with him.”
“Perry’s friends must all feel the truth of that. It is a pity. He has seen very little of the world, and at nineteen, you know, one’s taste is not fixed. My father has never been a believer in early marriages. But it may yet come to nothing, I daresay.”
“I do not think it,” Judith said decidedly. “Perry is young, but he knows his own mind, and once that is made up there is generally no changing it. I believe the attachment to be deep; it is certainly mutual. And, you know, however much I may regret an engagement entered into so soon I could not wish to see it broken.”
He assented. “It would be very bad. We can only wish him happy. I am not acquainted with Miss Fairford. You like her?”
“She is a very amiable, good sort of girl,” responded Judith.
“I am glad. The wedding, I conclude, will not be long put off?”
“I am not perfectly sure. Lord Worth spoke of six months, but Perry hopes to be able to induce him to consent to its taking place sooner. I don’t know how he will succeed.”
“I imagine Lord Worth will be more likely to find the means of postponing it.”
She turned an inquiring look upon him. He shook his head. “We shall see, but I own myself a little worried. I don’t understand Worth’s consenting to this marriage. But it is possible that I misjudge him.”
The barouche drew up outside the haberdasher’s, and Mrs. Scattergood coming out of the shop directly Judith could not pursue the subject further. Her cousin stepped down to help Mrs. Scattergood into the carriage. He declined getting in again; he had business to transact in the neighborhood; they left him on the pavement, and drove slowly on down the street. Coming opposite to Jackson’s again some little press of traffic obliged the coachman to pull his horses in to a standstill, and before they could move on two gentlemen came out of the Saloon, and stood for a moment on the pavement immediately beside the barouche. One was the Earl of Worth; the other Colonel Armstrong, a close friend of the Duke of York, with whom Miss Taverner was only slightly acquainted. Both gentlemen bowed to her; Colonel Armstrong walked away up the street, and Worth stepped forward to the barouche.
“Well, my ward?” he said. “How do you do, cousin?”
“Do you go our way?” inquired Mrs. Scattergood. “May we take you up?”
“To the bottom of the street, if you will,” he answered, getting into the carriage.
Miss Taverner was gazing at a milliner’s window on the opposite side of the road, apparently rapt in admiration of a yellow satin bonnet embossed with orange leopard-spots, and bound with a green figured ribbon, but at Mrs. Scattergood’s next words she turned her head and unwillingly paid attention to what was being said.
“I am excessively glad to have fallen in with you, Julian,” Mrs. Scattergood declared. “I have been wanting to ask you these three days what you were about to let Perry tie himself up in this fashion. Not that I have a word to say against Miss Fairford: I am sure she is perfectly amiable, a delightful girl! But you know he might do much better for himself. How came you to be giving your consent so readily?”
He said lazily: “I must have been in an uncommonly good temper, I suppose. Don’t you like the match?”
“It is respectable, but not brilliant, and I must say, Worth, I think Perry much too young.”
He made no reply. Miss Taverner raised her eyes to his face. “Do you think it wise to let him be married?” she asked.
“I think he is not married yet, Miss Taverner,” replied Worth.
The carriage began to move forward. Judith said: “Now that it has been so publicly announced it must be a settled thing.”
“Oh, by no means,” said Worth. “A dozen things might happen to prevent it.”
“He cannot in honour turn back from an engagement.”
“True, but I might turn him back from it if I thought it proper to do so,” said the Earl.
“If you do not like the engagement why did you permit him to enter into it?” asked Miss Taverner rather sternly.
“Because I had not the smallest desire to see him persuade Miss Fairford into a runaway match,” replied Worth.
She frowned. “I am to understand that you don’t wish to see him married?”
“Not at all. Why should I?” He turned to address the coachman, desiring to be set down at the corner. The carriage turned into Piccadilly, and stopped. He got out, and stood for a moment with his hand on the door. His face softened as he looked at Miss Taverner, but he only said: “Believe me, I have your affairs well in hand. Where do you go from here? Shall I direct your coachman?”
“Oh, we are going to look at the new bridge across the river,” said Mrs. Scattergood. “But he knows. Well, I am glad we met you, and I have no doubt there is a great deal in what you say. You are off to White’s, I suppose? I am sure I do not know what you gentlemen would do if there were no clubs to spend the day in!”
He returned no answer to this observation, but merely bowed and stepped back.
“Well, my love,” said Mrs. Scattergood as the carriage moved on, “you may say what you will, but excepting only Mr. Brummell, there is no one in town who dresses so well as Worth! Such an air of fashion! I believe you may see your face in his boots as well as in your mirror.”
“I have never denied Lord Worth’s ability to be in the mode,” replied Miss Taverner indifferently. “The only thing that surprises me is to see him come out of a boxing saloon.”
“Oh, my dear, I daresay he went only to accompany Colonel Armstrong,” said Mrs. Scattergood excusingly.
“More than likely,” agreed Judith, with a contemptuous smile.
Peregrine, who had entered the saloon as Worth was on the point of leaving, had also been surprised. That his lordship had been indulging in sparring exercise was evident, for he was just coming out of the changing-room, and had paused in the doorway to exchange a few words with Mr. Jackson. He caught sight of Peregrine at the other end of the Saloon, nodded to him, and said: “How does that ward of mine shape, Jackson?”
Jackson glanced over his shoulder. “Sir Peregrine Taverner, my lord? Well, he shows game; always ready to take the lead, you know, but sometimes rather glaringly abroad. Good bottom, but not enough science. Do you care to see him in a round or two?”
“God forbid!” said Worth. “I can well imagine it. Tell me, Jackson, could you lay your hand on a promising young heavyweight who would be glad to earn a little money out of the way—not in the Ring?”
Jackson looked at him rather curiously. “Cribb knows most of the young’uns, my lord. Lads thankful to be fighting for a purse of five guineas—is that it?” Worth nodded. “Any number of them to be found,” Jackson said. “You know that, my lord. But do you stand in need of one?”
“It has just occurred to me that I might,” said the Earl, negligently playing with his gloves. “I’ll see Cribb.” He turned as Colonel Armstrong came out of the changing-room. “Are you ready, Armstrong?”
“I suppose I am,” replied the Colonel, who was looking very hot. “I’ll swear you’ve sweated pounds off me, Jackson. I don’t know how you both contrive to look so cool.”
The ex-champion smiled. “His lordship was taking it very easily today.”
“What, fighting shy?” said the Colonel, with a twinkle.
“No, not shy; just trifling,” said Jackson. “But you should be coming to me more regularly, Colonel. It was bellows to mend with you after three minutes of it, and I don’t like those plunges of yours.”
“Trying to land you a facer, Jackson,” grinned the Colonel.
“You won’t do it like that, sir,” said Jackson, shaking his head. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go over and set Mr. Fitzjohn to a little singlestick with one of my young men.”
“Oh ay, we’re just off,” said Armstrong. “Are you coming, Worth?”
“Yes, I’m coming,” answered the Earl. He looked at Jackson. “Do what you can with my ward. And, Jackson, by the way—on that other matter, I feel sure I can rely on your discretion.”
“You can always be sure of that, my lord.”
The Earl nodded, and went out with his friend. Mr. Jackson turned his attention to the new-comers, matched Mr. Fitzjohn at singlestick with one of his instructors, and stood critically by while Peregrine, stripped to the waist, hit out at a punchball. He presently took the eager young man on in a sparring match, gave Mr. Fitzjohn a turn, and dismissed them both to cool off.
“Oh, damn it, why can’t I pop in a good one over your guard?” panted Mr. Fitzjohn. “I try hard enough!”
“You don’t try quick enough, Mr. Fitzjohn. You want to look to. your footwork more. I shan’t let you hit me till you deserve to.”
“What about me?” asked Peregrine, wiping the sweat out of his eyes.
“You’re shaping, sir, but you must keep your head more. You rattle in too hard. Go along to the Fives Court next Tuesday for the sparring exhibition, and you’ll see some very pretty boxing there.”
“I can’t,” said Peregrine, draping a towel round his shoulders. “I’m going to the Cock-Pit. The Gentlemen of Yorkshire against the Gentlemen of Kent, for a thousand guineas a side, and forty guineas each battle. You should come, Jackson. I’m fighting a Wednesbury grey—never been beaten!”
“Give me a red pyle!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, “I don’t fancy any of your greys, or blues, or blacks. Red’s the only colour for your true game-cock.”
“Why, good God, Fitz, that’s the greatest piece of nonsense ever I heard? There’s nothing to touch a Wednesbury grey!”
“Except a red pyle,” said Mr. Fitzjohn obstinately.
“There are good cocks of all colours,” interposed Jackson. “I hope yours wins his fight, Sir Peregrine. I’d come, but I’ve promised to help Mr. Jones with the arrangements at the Fives Court.”
The two young men went off to the changing-room together, and forgot their difference of opinion in splashing water over themselves, and being rubbed down by the attendant. But as Peregrine put on his shirt again he recollected the argument sufficiently to invite Mr. Fitzjohn to come to the Cock-Pit Royal on Tuesday and see the match. Mr. Fitzjohn agreed to it very readily, and was only sorry that from the circumstances of his being Sussex-born he could not enter his own red pyle for a battle with Peregrine’s grey. “What’s his weight?” he asked, “Mine turns the scale of four pounds exactly.”
“Mine’s just over,” replied Peregrine. “Three years old, and the sharpest heel you ever saw. My cocker has had him preparing these six weeks. He’s resting him now.” He bethought him of something. “By the by, Fitz, if you should chance to meet my sister you need not mention it to her. She don’t above half like cocking, and I haven’t told her I’ve had my bird brought down from Yorkshire.”
“Lord, I don’t talk about cocking to females, Perry!” said Mr. Fitzjohn scornfully. “I’ll be there on Tuesday. What’s the main?”
“Sixteen.”
“Bad number. Don’t like an even set,” said Mr. Fitzjohn, shaking his head. “Half-past five, I suppose? I’ll meet you there.”
He was not a young gentleman who made a habit of punctuality, but his watch being, unknown to himself, twenty minutes ahead of the correct time, he arrived at the Cock-Pit Royal, in Birdcage Walk, on Tuesday evening just as the cocks were being weighed and matched. He joined Peregrine, and saw the grey taken out of his bag, and looked him over very knowingly. He admitted that he was of strong shape; closely inspected his girth; approved the beam of his leg; and wanted to know whose cock he was matched with.
“Farnaby’s brass-back. It was Farnaby who suggested I might enter my bird, but he’ll make that brass-back look like a dunghill cock, eh, Flood?”
The cocker put the grey back into his bag, and looked dubious. “I don’t know as I’d say just that, sir,” he answered. “He’s in good trim, never better, but we’ll see.”
“Don’t think much of your bag,” remarked Mr. Fitzjohn, who liked bright colours.
The cocker gave a slow smile. “‘There’ll come a good cock out of a ragged bag,’ sir,” he quoted. “But we’ll see.”
The two young men nodded wisely at the saw, and moved away to take up their places on the first tier of benches. Here they were joined by Mr. Farnaby, who squeezed his way to them, and after a slight altercation prevailed on a middle-aged gentleman in a drab coat to make room for him to sit down beside Peregrine. Behind them the benches were being rapidly filled, and higher still the outer ring of standing room was tightly packed with the rougher members of the crowd. In the centre of the pit was the stage, on which no one but the setters-on was allowed. This was built up a few feet from the ground, covered with a carpet with a mark in the middle, and lit by a huge chandelier hanging immediately above it.
The first fight, which was between two red cocks, only lasted for nine minutes; the second was between a black-grey and a red pyle, and there was some hard hitting in the pit, and a great deal of noisy betting amongst the spectators. During this and the next fight, which was between a duck-winged grey and a red pyle, Peregrine and Mr. Fitzjohn grew much excited, Mr. Fitzjohn betting heavily on the red’s chances, extolling his tactics, and condemning the grey for ogling his opponent too long. Peregrine in honour bound backed the grey to win, and informed Mr. Fitzjohn that crowing was not fighting, and nor was breaking away.
“Breaking away! You’ve never seen a red pyle break away!” said Mr. Fitzjohn indignantly. “There! Look at him! He’s fast in the grey; they’ll have to draw his spurs out.”
The fight lasted for fifteen minutes, both birds being badly mauled; but in the end the red sent the grey to grass, dead, and Mr. Fitzjohn shook a complete stranger warmly by the hand, and said that there was nothing to beat a red pyle.
“Good birds, I don’t deny, but I’ll back my brass-back against any that was ever hatched,” said Mr. Farnaby, overhearing. “You’ll see him floor Taverner’s grey, or my name’s not Ned Farnaby.”
“Well, you’d better be thinking of a new one then, for our fight’s coming on now,” retorted Peregrine.
“Pooh, your bird don’t stand a chance!” scoffed Farnaby.
The setters-on had the cocks in the arena by this time, and Mr. Fitzjohn, critically looking them over, declared there to be very little to choose between them. They were well matched; their heads a full scarlet; tails, manes, and wings nicely clipped; and spurs very long and sharp, hooking well inwards. “If anything I like Taverner’s bird the better of the two,” pronounced Mr. Fitzjohn. “He looks devilish upright, and I fancy he’s the largest in girth. But there ain’t much in it.”
The birds did not ogle each other for long; they closed almost at once, and there was some slashing work which made the feathers fly. The brass-back was floored, but came up again, and toed the scratch. Both birds knew how to hold, and their tactics were cunning enough to rouse the enthusiasm of the crowd. The betting was slightly in favour of the grey, which very much delighted Peregrine, and made Mr. Fitzjohn shake his head, and say that saving only his own red pyle he did not know when he had seen a cock he liked better. Mr. Farnaby did not say anything but looked at Peregrine sideways once or twice and thrust out his under-lip.
The cocks had been fighting for about ten minutes when the brass-back, who had till now adopted more defensive tactics than the grey, suddenly rushed in, striking and slashing in famous style. The grey responded gallantly, and Mr. Fitzjohn cried out: “The best matched pair I ever saw! There they go, slap for slap! I’ll lay you any odds the grey wins! No, by God, he’s down! Ha, spurs fast again!”
The setters-on having secured their birds, and the brass-back’s spurs being released, both were again freed. The grey seemed to be a little dazed, the brass-back hardly less so. Both were bleeding from wounds, and neither seemed anxious to close again with his opponent. They stayed warily apart, ogling each other while the timekeeper kept the count, and fifty being reached before either showed any disposition to continue fighting, setting was allowed. The setters-on each took up his bird and brought him to the centre of the arena, and placed him beak to beak with the other. The grey was the first to strike, a swift, punishing blow that knocked the brass-back clean away.
A sudden commotion arose amongst the spectators. Mr. Farnaby sprang up, shouting “A foul! A foul! The grey was squeezed!”
Someone called out: “Nonsense! No such thing! Sit down!”
Peregrine swung around to stare at Farnaby. “He was not squeezed! I was watching the whole time, and I’m ready to swear my man did no more than set him!”
The setters-on, pending the referee’s decision, had each caught his bird, a lucky circumstance for the brass-back, who seemed to have been badly cut up by the last blow. The referee gave it in favour of the grey, and Mr. Fitzjohn said testily: “Of course the grey was not squeezed! Sit down, man, sit down! Hey, no wonder your cock’s shy! I believe the grey got his eye in that last brush. Perry, that’s a rare bird of yours! We’ll match him with mine one day, down at my place. Ha, that finishes it! The brass-back’s a blinker now—or dead. Dead, I think. Well done, Perry! Well done!”
Mr. Farnaby turned with an ugly look on his face. “Ay, well done indeed! Your cock was craven, and was squeezed to make him fight.”
“Here, I say, Farnaby, learn to take your losses!” said Mr. Fitzjohn with strong disapproval.
Peregrine, a gathering frown on his boyish countenance, lifted a hand to hush his friend, and fixed his eyes on Farnaby’s. “You can’t know what you’re saying. If there was a fault the referee must have seen it.”
“Oh,” said Farnaby, with a sneer, “when rich men fight their cocks referees can sometimes make mistakes.”
It was not said loud enough to carry very far, but it brought Peregrine to his feet in a bound. “What!” he cried furiously. “Say that again if you dare!”
Though no one but those immediately beside Farnaby could have heard his words, it was quite apparent to everyone by this time that an altercation was going on, and the rougher part of the gathering at once began to take sides, some (who had lost their money on the brass-back) loudly asserting that the grey had been squeezed, and others declaring with equal fervour that it had been a fair fight. Above the hubbub a shrill Cockney voice besought Peregrine to darken Mr. Farnaby’s daylights—advice of which he did not seem to stand in much need, for he was clenching his fists very menacingly already.
Mr. Fitzjohn, who had also heard Farnaby’s last speech, tried to get between him and Peregrine, saying in a brisk voice: “That’s enough of this foolery. You’re foxed, Farnaby. Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Oh, I’m foxed, am I?” said Farnaby, keeping his eyes on Peregrine’s. “I’m not so foxed but what I can see when a bird’s pressed to make him fight, and I repeat, Sir Peregrine Taverner, that money can do queer things if you have enough of it.”
“Oh, damn!” said Mr. Fitzjohn, exasperated. “Pay no heed to him, Perry.”
Peregrine, however, had not waited for this advice. As Mr. Fitzjohn spoke he drove his left in a smashing blow to Farnaby’s face, and sent that gentleman sprawling over the bench. There were a great many cheers, a shout of “A mill, a mill!” some protests from the quieter members of the audience; and the man in the drab coat, across whose knees Mr. Farnaby had fallen, demanded that the Watch should be summoned.
Mr. Farnaby picked himself up, and showed the house a bleeding nose. The same voice which had counselled Peregrine to strike shouted gleefully: “Drawn his cork! Fib him, guv’nor! Let him have a bit of home-brewed!”
Mr. Farnaby held his handkerchief to his nose and said: “My friend will call on yours in the morning, sir! Be good enough to name your man!”
“Fitz?” said Peregrine curtly, over his shoulder.
“At your service,” replied Mr. Fitzjohn.
“Mr. Fitzjohn will act for me, sir,” said Peregrine, pale but perfectly determined.
“You will hear from me, sir,” promised Farnaby thickly, and strode out, still holding his reddened handkerchief to his nose.