"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."
"It were," agreed Martin.
"Same as Mr. Edward," continued the narrator, "young Harry Adams
wouldn't say a word about what happened to him. But when Mr. Edward
first see him, all over sticking-plaster, he laughed till the pots
nearly fell off the hooks, he did. Little did he guess his own turn
was to come!"
My interest revived.
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