Tony Butler Part 87

With this brief pa.s.sage of arms each sank back into his corner, and nothing more was said.

For a long while the way led through that long suburb of Naples that lies on the south of the city, and the tramp of the horses over the pavement would have made any conversation difficult to hear. At length, however, they gained the smooth road, and then Skeff discovered, from the long-drawn breathings of his companion, that he was sound asleep.

By the small wax taper with which he lighted his cigar, Skeff examined the features of the man; and, brief as was the inspection, there was enough seen to show him that he was not a subject for either dictation or raillery. The hard, stern, thin-lipped mouth, the knitted brows, the orbits marked with innumerable wrinkles, and an ugly scar, evidently from a sabre, that divided one whisker, and reached from nigh the ear to the chin, presented enough to show that he might easily have chanced upon a more genial fellow-traveller.

Skeff knew that the Neapolitan service had for some years back attracted adventurers from various countries. Poles, Americans, with Irish and Hungarian refugees, had flocked to the scene of what they foresaw must be a struggle, and taken their side with the Royalists or against them as profit or inclination prompted. Now this man's name, M'Caskey, proclaimed him as Irish or Scotch; and the chances were, in either case, if a renegade from his own country, he would not be over well disposed towards one who represented the might and majesty of England.

"If I could only let him see," thought Skeff, "that I am one of those fellows who have done everything and know every one, a thorough man of the world, and no red-tapist, no official pendant, we should get on all the better." He puffed away at his cigar as he thus mused, turning over in his mind by what species of topic he should open acquaintance with his companion.

"That's good tobacco," said M'Caskey, without opening his eyes. "Who's smoking the cheroot?"

"I am. May I offer you one?"

"A dozen if you like," said the Colonel, giving himself a shake, and sitting bolt upright.

Skeff held out his cigar-case, and the other coolly emptied it, throwing the contents into his hat, which lay on the cushion in front of him.

"When old Olozaga was Captain-General of Cuba, he always supplied me with havannahs; but when O'Donnell's party came into power, I came down to cheroots, and there I have been ever since. These are not bad."

"They are considered particularly good, sir," said Skeff, coldly.

"_That_ I will not say; but I own I am not easy to please either in wine, women, or tobacco."

"You have had probably large experiences of all three?"

"I should like much to meet the man who called himself my equal."

"It might be presumptuous in me, perhaps, to stand forward on such ground; but I, too, have seen something of life."

"You! you!" said M'Caskey, with a most frank impertinence in his tone.

"Yes, sir, I, I,--Mr. Skeffington Darner, Her Majesty's Representative and Charge d'Affaires at this Court."

"Where the deuce was it I heard your name?

Darner--Darner--Skeff--Skeffy--I think they called you? Who could it be that mentioned you?"

"Not impossibly the newspapers, though I suspect they did not employ the familiarity you speak of."

"Well, Skeff, what's all this business we're bent on? What wildgoose chase are we after here?"

Darner was almost sick with indignation at the fellow's freedom; he nearly burst with the effort it cost him to repress his pa.s.sion; but he remembered how poor Tony Butler's fate lay in the balance, and that if anything should r.e.t.a.r.d his journey by even an hour, that one hour might decide his friend's destiny.

"Might I take the liberty to observe, sir, that our acquaintance is of the very shortest; and until I shall desire, which I do not antic.i.p.ate, the privilege of addressing you by your Christian name--"

"I am called Milo," said M'Caskey; "but no man ever called me so but the late Duke of Wellington; and once, indeed, in a moment of enthusiasm, poor Byron."

"I shall not imitate them, and I desire that you may know me as Mr.

Damer."

"Damer or Skeffy--I don't care a rush which--only tell me where are we going, and what are we going for?"

Skeff proceeded in leisurely fashion, but with a degree of cold reserve that he hoped might check all freedom, to explain that he was in search of a young countryman, whom he desired to recall from his service with Garibaldi, and restore to his friends in England.

"And you expect me to cross over to Garibaldi's lines?" asked M'Caskey, with a grin.

"I certainly reckon on your accompanying me wherever I deem it essential to proceed in furtherance of my object. Your General said as much when he offered me your services."

"No man disposes of M'Caskey but the Sovereign he serves."

"Then I can't see what you have come for!" cried Skeff, angrily.

"Take care, take care," said the other, slowly.

"Take care of what?"

"Take care of Skeffington Darner, who is running his head into a very considerable sc.r.a.pe. I have the most tenacious of memories; and there's not a word--not a syllable--falls from you, I 'll not make you accountable for hereafter."

"If you imagine, sir, that a tone of braggadocio--"

"There you go again. Braggadocio costs blood, my young fellow."

"I'm not to be bullied."

"No; but you might be shot."

"You 'll find me as ready as yourself with the pistol."

"I am charmed to hear it, though I never met a fellow-brought up at a desk that was so."

Skeff was by no means deficient in courage, and, taken with a due regard to all the conventional usages of such cases, he would have "met his man" as became a gentle-man; but it was such a new thing in his experiences to travel along in a carriage arranging the terms of a duel with the man who ought to have been his pleasant companion, and who indeed, at the very moment, was smoking his cheroots, that he lost himself in utter bewilderment and confusion.

"What does that small flask contain?" said M'Caskey, pointing to a straw-covered bottle, whose neck protruded from the pocket of the carriage.

"Cherry brandy," said Skeff, dryly, as he b.u.t.toned the pocket-flap over it.

"It is years upon years since I tasted that truly British cordial."

Skeff made no reply.

"They never make it abroad, except in Switzerland, and there, too, badly."

Still Skeff was silent.

"Have you got a sandwich with you?"

"There is something eatable in that basket,--I don't know what," said Skeff, pointing to a little neatly corded hamper. "But I thought you had just finished supper when I drove up."

"You 're a Londoner, I take it," said M'Caskey.