^^ ^^^ ^^^ properly a punch, and the truth is that Adam had designed to make it no more than nominal—though unmistakable. Perhaps he was over-tense? Certainly he had not sought what street crowds called claret; but as certainly he got it.
Johnston, holding his head high, and blubbering something that sounded like "barbarous," turned and ran—not in the direction of the common room but in that of the necessary.
Adam wavered half a moment, then went back to the common room. He sat down. He knew that he was trembling but didn't think it showed. He might have circled the room with his gaze then and never caught an eye. Nobody changed the pitch of his voice or slowed his speech, not any more than he would point with an ill-bred finger. Yet they were all talking about Adam. Knowing this, he glowered. He recalled to mind the great burst of popularity he had enjoyed, endured rather, after having disposed of Major Kellsen, as well as the changed attitude toward him after he had bladed it out with the custos at Newport. And now—Clark's. The pirates of Providence, the burghers of Rhode Island, here these pomaded popinjays, all were the same. They wanted to see a fight, from a safe distance.
John Chumley, back, fumed.
"I get you accepted, I get them used to the sight of you, and you have to spoil it by clouting the man!"
"I didn't clout him," hotly. "I clouted him he'd've gone down."
"I tried to explain to Jerve that it's an American custom—"
"More or less is."
"—but now I'm afraid we've lost our chance for an understanding."
"I don't want an understanding, I want a fight. I'm tired of all this prissy-go-pink-toe business. If he won't fight me polite, then I'll just draw and pitch into him. If he—"
"Sh-sh! Here he comes back."
They saw no change in the bedaubed visage when Clark's most talked-of customer passed them on his way from the necessary. He bowed to Chumley as though seeing him for the first time, and his mask was unmarred, no blood. He was lackadaisically picking his teeth.
"He may pass it off," Chumley whispered. "More likely he'll challenge me, for having brought you here. And I'll apologize."
"Why shouldn't he challenge me?"
"How can he? He hasn't been introduced to you."
"I bloodied his nose. Ain't that introduction enough?"
"Not in Clark's," coldly.
Everybody knew what had happened, though Adam was danged if he could see how: there had been no witness. The buzz of talk never rose above a level befitting the gentility; but it was significant that nobody left.
After perhaps half an hour Sir Jervis Johnston did ask for plume and paper. Everybody pretended not to notice.
Similarly never a head was turned when the waiter bore the missive to the table where Chumley and Adam sat. The waiter handed it to Adam.
Though this was against tradition, Adam couldn't help tossing a grin of triumph at John Chumley, who languidly sipped wine.
Adam unfolded the paper. The hand was round, firm, good.
Esteemed Captain, sir:
The person whose name you mentioned would sure not relish the thought that two of her friends were bickering like fishwives. Doubtless you have an explanation that in my unmannerly haste I didn't hear. If this be true, pray correct me.
I remain, sir,
Yr Worship's most humble and most obedient servant,
J. Johnston, Bart.
"Now I call that handsome," Adam cried.
"He's had a plenty of practice."
"Get me some of that paper. I'll write him an answer."
"You'll do nothing of the sort. You put the matter into my hands now. You ignore this message."
"But that would be unmannerly!"
"At this stage of the proceedings you're supposed to be. Don't touch the note any more. Don't even glance at it. When I go to Jerve's table I'll pass the fire and drop the note in. That in itself will announce my intention of insisting upon a duel. It's customary," Chumley added, "to destroy all correspondence before a rencontre, lest the crown seize the survivor on a charge of murder."
Adam sighed.
"Well, why don't you go then?"
"Not yet, man! We must chat a bit. I'll go over in half an hour or so, as if I'd just remembered it. My dear, my dear, will you never learn that in polite society one never does anything in a hurry?"
"In polite society one never does anything at all," Adam muttered.
That was it—you waited and waited. You sat doing nothing, seeing nothing, getting nowhere, hour after weary hour. It fair gave Adam the creeps. When he visited the ships' chandlers or shopped for nails or needles, when he sat in Edward Lloyd's place listening to nearby conversations, or simply walked the streets of this celebrated sewer, he was learning something, or at the very least exposing himself to the chance of learning something. When he sat before the fire at the Hearth Cricket, telling little Lil a story, or dipping his nose into a jack of ale, he was enjoying himself. But at Clark's all he did was wait.
Even after John Chumley had sauntered over to Johnston's table, dropping the note into the fire as he went, there was nothing to indicate that those two men would reach an early decision. Stealing a look at them now and then, as everybody else in the coffee house was doing, Adam saw that they appeared to be chatting indolently about matters that bored. Yet they bowed politely enough, if somewhat offhandedly, when Chumley at last rose to go.
Back opposite Adam, Chumley ordered a pipe.
"What'd you agree, man? Tell me!"
"Tut, tut. Don't lean forward like that. You're being watched."
"But what'd you decide?"
"He'll meet you. He deems it condescending, but he's in a good mood. The cockpit back of Birdcage Walk, in the morning."
"What time?"
"Dawn. That's the hour that's fashionable for duels. The only thing it is fashionable for, damn me, in this town!"
Adam rose. It was late afternoon. Chumley objected in a low voice, but Adam had listened to Chumley too long. He wasn't going to sit around any more. And Chumley at last shrugged, and accompanied Adam, walking slowly, hand on hip, to the door. They bowed as they passed Jervis Johnston's table, and he bowed in return.
John Chumley leaned in the window of Adam's chair.
"I'll call for you, of course. Before it's light. I'll have two chairs. We'll need link boys, too. And whatever you do, please, my chick, my sweet, don't get coarse on the field."
"What's that got to do with it?"
"Do that, and Jerve might refuse to accept your apology. Then you'd have to fight him." Chumley shuddered. "And he'd carve you."
Adam said nothing.
"And get a good sleep," Chumley urged.
"I will, my chick, my sweet," Adam snarled.
"It's thought bad taste to have a drawn countenance when you go to the field of honor."
"Mine won't be drawn," Adam promised.
He was not so sure of that when, ten minutes later, he re-entered the Hearth Cricket—to find Goodwife Bingham on her knees sobbing, while her husband the host stood stunned.
"My Lillian! My one child! Lil, Lil, come hack to me!"
Hal Bingham, no color in his face, looked at Adam.
"The kidnappers got her," he whispered.
It was well that Adam was not a blasphemous man, else now surely he would have taken the name of the Lord in vain.
"Then what in thunderation are you doing on your knees?"
The blow must have fallen only a moment earlier. The air tingled. There was another person in the ordinary—a lank, knotty-throated youth named Lamson, brother of that same Anne Lamson who had been stolen off the streets a week ago. Adam pointed a finger that might have been a poniard.
"You! Did you see her napped?"
The young man gulped, nodding.
"Two men was walking with 'er. Over in Loo Lane. Just now. She saw me and she started to call out somefing, but they 'ustled 'er along. They was 'olding 'er 'ands each side."