Scotch and slinked out. What do you think about that for a story, eh,
sir?"

He looked at me triumphantly. For my own part I must confess I was
disappointed. A cat-and-dog squabble between a rustic Lothario and
some local virago did not excite me so intensely as it seemed to
excite my companions.

"Is that all you know of the matter?" I asked.

"No," answered Martin, "it ain't. Tell him, Hawkins."

"Aye," resumed Hawkins, "he might as well know, as he's livin' here.
Well, sir, young Mr. Edward he's very quiet about what happened to
him. Maybe we shouldn't have thought so much about it like if it
hadn't been that in this very bar, six months ago, he'd plagued the
life out of young Harry Adams."

"For what reason?" I asked idly; the conversation was beginning to
bore me. But:

"Young Harry Adams," explained Hawkins with gusto, and his former
wicked look returning to his eyes, "at one time was Mr. Edward's only
rival with the gals, he was. A good-lookin' young fellow; got a
commission in the war he did. He's up to London now. Well, six months
ago young Harry Adams come staggerin' in here one night with blood
runnin' from his face and neck. He fell down in that seat where you're
sitting now and fainted right off, didn't he, Martin? We had to send
young Jim Corder (what used to come here in them days) off runnin' all
the way past Leeways for the doctor. Ah, that were a night."