t presented
itself, all concerned therein became reserved and official, and the
representatives merely of a ceremonious etiquette and a
minutely-regulated ordeal of battle. So, as I said, Puddock bowed
grandly and sublimely to Nutter, and then magnificently to the company,
and made his exit.

There was a sort of a stun and a lull for several seconds. Something
very decisive and serious had occurred. One or two countenances wore
that stern and mysterious smile, which implies no hilarity, but a kind
of reaction in presence of the astounding and the slightly horrible.
There was a silence; the gentlemen kept their attitudes too, for some
moments, and all eyes were directed toward the door. Then some turned to
Charles Nutter, and then the momentary spell dissolved itself.

CHAPTER VIII.

RELATING HOW DOCTOR TOOLE AND CAPTAIN DEVEREUX WENT ON A MOONLIGHT
ERRAND.

Nearly a dozen gentlemen broke out at once into voluble speech. Nutter
was in a confounded passion; but being a man of few words, showed his
wrath chiefly in his countenance, and stood with his legs apart and his
arms stuffed straight into his coat pockets, his back to the fire-place,
with his chest thrown daringly out, sniffing the air in a state of high
tension, and as like as a respectable little fellow of five feet six
could be to that giant who smelt the blood of the Irishman, and swore,
with a 'Fee! Faw!! Fum!!!' he'd 'eat him for his supper that night.'

'None of the corps can represent you, Nutter, you know,' said Captain
Cluffe. 'It may go hard enough with Puddock and O'Flaherty, as the
matter stands; but, by Jove! if any of us appear on the other side, the
general would make it a very serious affair, indeed.'

'Toole, can't you?' asked Devereux.

'Out of the question,' answered he, shutting his eyes, with a frown, and
shaking his head. 'There's no man I'd do it sooner for, Nutter knows;
but I can't--I've refused too often; besides, you'll want me
professionally, you know; for Sturk must attend that Royal Hospital
enquiry to-morrow all day--but hang it, where's the difficulty? Isn't
there?--pooh!--why there must be lots of fellows at hand. Just--a--just
think for a minute.'

'I don't care who,' said Nutter, with dry ferocity, 'so he can load a
pistol.'

'Tom Forsythe would have done capitally, if he was at home,' said one.

'But he's _not_,' remarked Cluffe.

'Well,' said Toole, getting close up to Devereux, in a coaxing
undertone, 'su