220
WYLbER'S HAJVD.
"No, not much tin," answered Lake; "but I'll leave
you what you want more, my sense and decency, with a
request that you will use them for my sake."
"You're a devilish witty fellow, Lake; take care your
wit don't get you into trouble," said the Baronet, chuck-
ling and growing angrier, for he saw the Hebe laughing;
and not being a ready man, though given to banter, he
sometimes descended to menace in his jocularity.
"I was just thinking your dullness might do the same
for you," drawled Lake.
"When do you mean to pay Dawlings that bet on the
Derby?" demanded Sir Harry, his face very red, and
only the ghost of his smile grinning there. "I think
you'd better; of course it is quite easy."
The Baronet was smiling his best, with a very red face
and that unpleasant uncertainty in his contracted eyes
which accompanies suppressed rage.
"As easy as that," said Lake, chucking a little bunch
of grapes full into Sir Harry Bracton's handsome face.
Lake recoiled a step; his face blanched as white as the
cloth; his left arm lifted, and his right hand grasping the
haft of a table-knife.
There was just a second in which the athletic Baronet
stood, as it were breathless and incredulous, and then his
Herculean fist whirled in the air with a most unseemly
oath: the girl screamed, and a crash of glass and crock-
ery, whisked away by their coats, resounded on the
ground.
A chair between Lake and Sir Harry impeded the Bar-
onet's stride, and his uplifted arm was caught by a gen-
tleman in moustache, who held so fast that there was no
chance of shaking it loose.
"The people — hang it! — you'll have all the people
about you. Quiet — quiet — can't you, I say. Settle it
quietly. Here I am."