who?”
“Who—who—who—why, Maynard. Of course you know Maynard? B’long to the Thirty—Thirty—Don’t reclect the number of regiment. No matter for that. He’s here—the c-c-confounded cur.”
“Maynard here!” exclaimed the valet, in a tone strange for a servant.
“B’shure he is! Straight as a trivet, curse him! Safe to spoil everything—make a reg’lar mucker of it.”
“Are you sure it was he?”
“Sure—sure! I sh’d think so. He’s give me good reason, c-curse ’im!”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Yes—yes.”
“What did he say to you?”
“Not much said—not much. It’s what he’s—what he’s done.”
“What?”
“Devil of a lot—yes—yes. Never mind now. Let’s go to bed, Frank. Tell you all ’bout in the morning. Game’s up. ’Tis by J-Jupiter!”
As if incapable of continuing the dialogue—much less of undressing himself—Mr Swinton staggered across to the bed; and, sinking down upon it, was soon snoring and asleep.
It might seem strange that the servant should lie down beside him, which he did. Not after knowing that the little valet was his wife! It was the amiable “Fan” who thus shared the couch of her inebriate husband.
Chapter Thirteen.
Challenging the Challenger.
“In faith, I’ve done a very foolish thing,” reflected the young Irishman, as he entered his dormitory, and flung himself into a chair. “Still there was no help for it. Such talk as that, even from a stranger like Dick Swinton, would play the deuce with me. Of course they don’t know him here; and he appears to be playing a great part among them; no doubt plucking such half-fledged pigeons as those with him below.
“Very likely he said something of the same to the girl’s mother—to herself? Perhaps that’s why I’ve been treated so uncourteously! Well, I have him on the hip now; and shall make him repent his incautious speeches. Kicked out of the British service! Lying cur, to have said it! To have thought of such a thing! And from what I’ve heard it’s but a leaf from his own history! This may have suggested it. I don’t believe he’s any longer in the Guards: else what should he be doing out here? Guardsmen don’t leave London and its delights without strong, and generally disagreeable, reasons. I’d lay all I’ve got he’s been disgraced. He was on the edge of it when I last heard of him.
“He’ll fight of course? He wouldn’t if he could help it—I know the sweep well enough for that. But I’ve given him no chance to get out of it. A kid glove across the face, to say nothing of a threat to spit in it—with a score of strange gentlemen looking on and listening! If ten times the poltroon he is, he dare not show the white feather now.
“Of course he’ll call me out; and what am I to do for a second? The three or four fellows I’ve scraped companionship with here are not the men—one of them. Besides, none of them might care to oblige me on such short acquaintance?
“What the deuce am I to do? Telegraph to the Count?” he continued, after a pause spent in reflecting. “He’s in New York, I know; and know he would come on at once. It’s just the sort of thing would delight the vieux sabreur, now that the Mexican affair is ended, and he’s once more compelled to sheathe his revolutionary sword. Come in! Who the deuce knocks at a gentleman’s door at this unceremonious hour?”
It was not yet 5 a.m. Outside the hotel could be heard carriage wheels rolling off with late roisterers, who had outstayed the ball.
“Surely it’s too soon for an emissary from Swinton? Come in!”
The door opening at the summons, discovered the night-porter of the hotel.
“Well! what want you, my man?”
“A gentleman wants you, sir.”
“Show him up!”
“He told me, sir, to give you his apologies for disturbing you at so early an hour. It’s because his business is very important.”
“Bosh! Why need he have said that?” Dick Swinton’s friend must be a more delicate gentleman than himself!
The last speech was in soliloquy, and not to the porter.
“He said, sir,” continued the latter, “that having come by the boat—”
“By the boat?”
“Yes, sir, the New York boat. She’s just in.”
“Yes—yes; I heard the whistle. Well?”
“That having come by the boat, he thought—he thought—”
“Confound it! my good fellow; don’t stay to tell me his thoughts secondhand. Where is he? Show him up here, and let him speak them for himself.”
“From New York?” continued Maynard, after the porter had disappeared. “Who of the Knickerbockers can it be? And what business of such importance as to startle a fellow from his sleep at half-past four in the morning—supposing me to have been asleep—which luckily I’m not Is the Empire city ablaze, and Fernando Wood, like a second Nero, fiddling in ruthless glee over its ruins? Ha! Roseveldt?”
“Maynard!”
The tone of the exchanged salutation told of a meeting unexpected, and after a period of separation. It was followed by a mutual embrace. Theirs was a friendship too fervent to be satisfied with the shaking of hands. Fellow campaigners—as friends—they had stood side by side under the hissing hailstorm of battle. Side by side had they charged up the difficult steep of Chapultepec, in the face of howitzers belching forth their deadly shower of shot—side by side fallen on the crest of the counterscarp, their blood streaming unitedly into the ditch.
They had not seen each other since. No wonder they should meet with emotions corresponding to the scenes through which they had passed.
Some minutes passed before either could find coherent speech. They only exchanged ejaculations. Maynard was the first to become calm.
“God bless you, my dear Count?” he said; “my grand instructor in the science of war. How glad I am to see you!”
“Not more than I to see you, cher camarade!”
“But say, why are you here? I did not expect you; though strange enough I was this moment thinking of you!”
“I’m here to see you—specially you!”
“Ah! For
