Moore looked disgusted. “Give way, if you please,” said he; “leave me to myself; I have no objection to act alone: only be assured you will not find safety in submission; your partner, Pearson, gave way, and conceded, and forebore—well, that did not prevent them from attempting to shoot him in his own house.”
“My dear sir, take a little wine and water,” recommended Mr. Helstone. The wine and water was Hollands-and-water, as Mr. Sykes discovered when he had compounded and swallowed a brimming tumbler thereof: it transfigured him in two minutes, brought the colour back to his face, and made him at least word-valiant. He now announced that he hoped he was above being trampled on by the common people; he was determined to endure the insolence of the working-classes no longer; he had considered of it and made up his mind to go all lengths; if money and spirit could put down these rioters, they should be put down; Mr. Moore might do as he liked, but he—Christie Sykes—would spend his last penny in law before he would be beaten: he’d settle them, or he’d see.”
“Take another glass,” urged Moore.
Mr. Sykes didn’t mind if he did; this was a cold morning (Sugden had found it a warm one); it was necessary to be careful at this season of the year—it was proper to take something to keep the damp out;
