"Be shot if I don't believe you're the man himself!" cried the
colonel, shaking an armed fist in my face. "You young wolf in
sheep's clothing. Been at my wine, of course! Put down that
bottle; down with it this instant, or I'll drill a tunnel through
your middle. I thought so! Begad, sir, you shall pay for this!
Don't you give me an excuse for potting you now, or I'll jump at
the chance! My last bottle of '84 - you miserable blackguard - you
unutterable beast!"
He had browbeaten me into his own chair in his own corner; he was
standing over me, empty bottle in one hand, revolver in the other,
and murder itself in the purple puckers of his raging face. His
language I will not even pretend to indicate: his skinny throat
swelled and trembled with the monstrous volleys. He could smile
at my appearance in his wife's clothes; he would have had my blood
for the last bottle of his best champagne. His eyes were not hidden
now; they needed no eyeglass to prop them open; large with fury,
they started from the livid mask. I watched nothing else. I could
not understand why they should start out as they did.
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