What Will He Do with It? — Volume 10Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
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What Will He Do with It? — Volume 10
Lytton, Edward Bulwer Lytton, Baron
English fiction -- 19th century
seeking to shrink out of sight.
"Cutts, come hither," cried he, imperiously. Cutts did not stir.
"Throw me that cur this way--you, who sit next him."
"Don't, don't; his mad fit is on him; he will murder me--murder me, who
have helped and saved you all so often. Stand by me."
"We will," said both his neighbours, the one groping for his case-knife,
the other for his revolver.
"Do you fear I should lop your ears, dog," cried Jasper, for shrinking
from my side with your tail between your legs! Pooh! I scorn to waste
force on a thing so small. After all, I am glad you left me; I did not
want you. You will find your horse at an inn in the village of ------.
I will pay for its hire whenever we meet again. Meanwhile, find another
master--I discharge you. /Mille tonnerres!/ why does that weasel-faced
snail not bring me the brandy! By your leave,"--and he appropriated to
himself the brimming glass of his next neighbour. Thus refreshed, he
glanced round through the reek of tobacco smoke; saw the man he had
dislodged, and who, rather amazed than stunned by his fall, had kept
silence on rising, and was now ominously interchanging muttered words
with two of his comrades, who were also on their legs. Jasper turned
from him contemptuously;--with increasing contempt in his hard fierce
sneer, noted the lowering frowns on either side the Pandemonium; and it
was only with an angry flash from his eyes that he marked, on closing his
survey, the bar dropped across the door, and two forms, knife in hand,
stationed at the threshold.
"Aha! my jolly companions," said he then, "you do right to bar the door.
Prudent families can't settle their quarrels too snugly amongst
themselves. I am come here on purpose to give you all a proper scolding,
and if some of you don't hang your heads for shame before I have done,
you'll die more game than I think for, whenever you come to the last
Drop."
He rose as he thus spoke, folding his sinewy arms across his wide chest.
Most of the men had risen too--some, however, remained seated; there
might be eighteen or twenty in all. Every eye was fixed on him, and many
a hand was on a deadly weapon.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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