"Makin' yure sweet self agreeable as usual, Loojey, my dear?" he enquired, and proceeded with the difficult task of making himself both sarcastic and intelligible in the French language. The Italian wheeled round with a scowl at the sound of the voice he hated.
John Bull stepped forward.
"I have come for your answer, Rivoli," he said quietly. "I wish to know when and with what weapons you would prefer to fight me. Personally, I don't care in the least what they are, so long as they're fatal."
A ring of interested listeners gathered round. The Neapolitan laughed contemptuously.
"Weapons!" he growled. "A fico for weapons. I'll twist your neck and break your back, if you trouble me again."
"Very good," replied the Englishman. "Now listen, bully. We have had a little more than enough of you. You take advantage of your strength to terrorise men who are not street acrobats, and professional weight-lifters. Now I am going to take advantage of this, to terrorise you," and he produced a small revolver from his pocket. "Now choose. Try your blackguard-rush games and get a bullet through your skull, or fight me like a man with any weapon you prefer."
An approving cheer broke from the quickly increasing audience. The Italian moistened his lips and glared round.
"Mais oui," observed Madame with cool impartiality, "but that is a fair offer."
As though stung by her remark, the Italian threw
