Before they arrived in
Naples they had agreed to take the Sicilian trip together, then up
Italy, through France, to England. The scholar and the merchant at
play were like two boys out of school; the dry whimsical humor of the
Scotsman and the volatile sparkle of the Irishman made them capital
foils.
Killigrew dropped his _Rodney Stone_.
"Say, Crawford," he began, "after seeing ten thousand saints in ten
thousand cathedrals, since February, I'd give a hundred dollars for a
ringside ticket to a scrap like that one,"--indicating the volume on
his knee.
Crawford lay back and laughed.
"Well," said his wife, with an amused smile, "why don't you say it?"
"Say what?"
"'So would I!'"
"Men are quite hopeless," sighed Mrs. Killigrew, when the laughter had
subsided.
"You oughtn't object to a good shindy, Molly," slyly observed her
husband. "You'll never forgive me that black eye."
"I'll never forgive the country you got it in,"--grimly. "But what's
the harm in a good scrap between two husky fellows, trained to a hair
to slam-bang each other?"
"It isn't refined, dad," said Kitty.
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