Richard Naseby read the whole thing from beginning to end;
and a crushing shame fell upon his spirit. His father had
played the fool; he had gone out noisily to war, and come
back with confusion. The moment that his trumpets sounded,
he had been disgracefully unhorsed. There was no question as
to the facts; they were one and all against the Squire.
Richard would have given his ears to have suppressed the
issue; but as that could not be done, he had his horse
saddled, and furnishing himself with a convenient staff, rode
off at once to Thymebury.
The editor was at breakfast in a large, sad apartment. The
absence of furniture, the extreme meanness of the meal, and
the haggard, bright-eyed, consumptive look of the culprit,
unmanned our hero; but he clung to his stick, and was stout
and warlike.
'You wrote the article in this morning's paper?' he demanded.
'You are young Mr. Naseby? I PUBLISHED it,' replied the
editor, rising.
'My father is an old man,' said Richard; and then with an
outburst, 'And a damned sight finer fellow than either you or
Dalton!' He stopped and swallowed; he was determined that
all should go with regularity. 'I have but one question to
put to you, sir,' he resumed. 'Granted that my father was
misinformed, would it not have been more decent to withhold
the letter and communicate with him in private?'
'Believe me,' returned the editor, 'that alternative was not
open to me.
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