It was directed to blank Johnson, Esq., by favour of Augustus Folair, Esq.; and the astonishment of Nicholas was in no degree lessened, when he found it to be couched in the following laconic terms:—
“Mr. Lenville presents his kind regards to Mr. Johnson, and will feel obliged if he will inform him at what hour tomorrow morning it will be most convenient to him to meet Mr. L. at the Theatre, for the purpose of having his nose pulled in the presence of the company.
“Mr. Lenville requests Mr. Johnson not to neglect making an appointment, as he has invited two or three professional friends to witness the ceremony, and cannot disappoint them upon any account whatever.
Indignant as he was at this impertinence, there was something so exquisitely absurd in such a cartel of defiance, that Nicholas was obliged to bite his lip and read the note over two or three times before he could muster sufficient gravity and sternness to address the hostile messenger, who had not taken his eyes from the ceiling, nor altered the expression of his face in the slightest degree.
“Do you know the contents of this note, sir?” he asked, at length.
“Yes,” rejoined Mr. Folair, looking round for an instant, and immediately carrying his eyes back again to the ceiling.
“And how dare you bring it here, sir?” asked Nicholas, tearing it into very little pieces, and jerking it in a shower towards the messenger. “Had you no fear of being kicked downstairs, sir?”
Mr. Folair turned his head—now ornamented with several fragments of the note—towards Nicholas, and with the same imperturbable dignity, briefly replied “No.”
“Then,” said Nicholas, taking up the tall hat and tossing it towards the door, “you had better follow that article of your dress, sir, or you may find yourself very disagreeably deceived, and that within a dozen seconds.”
“I say, Johnson,” remonstrated Mr. Folair, suddenly losing all his dignity, “none of that, you know. No tricks with a gentleman’s wardrobe.”
“Leave the room,” returned Nicholas. “How could you presume to come here on such an errand, you scoundrel?”
“Pooh! pooh!” said Mr. Folair, unwinding his comforter, and gradually getting himself out of it. “There—that’s enough.”
“Enough!” cried Nicholas, advancing towards him. “Take yourself off, sir.”
“Pooh! pooh! I tell you,” returned Mr. Folair, waving his hand in deprecation of any further wrath; “I wasn’t in earnest. I only brought it in joke.”
“You had better be careful how you indulge in such jokes again,” said Nicholas, “or you may find an allusion to pulling noses rather a dangerous reminder for the subject of your facetiousness. Was it written in joke, too, pray?”
“No, no, that’s the best of it,” returned the actor; “right down earnest—honour bright.”
Nicholas could not repress a smile at the odd figure before him, which, at all times more calculated to provoke mirth than anger, was especially so at that moment, when with one knee upon the ground, Mr. Folair twirled his old hat round upon his hand, and affected the extremest agony lest any of the nap should have been knocked off—an ornament which it is almost superfluous to say, it had not boasted for many months.
“Come, sir,” said Nicholas, laughing in spite of himself. “Have the goodness to explain.”
“Why, I’ll tell you how it is,” said Mr. Folair, sitting himself down in a chair with great coolness. “Since you came here Lenville has done nothing but second business, and, instead of having a reception every night as he used to have, they have let him come on as if he was nobody.”
“What do you mean by a reception?” asked Nicholas.
“Jupiter!” exclaimed Mr. Folair, “what an unsophisticated shepherd you are, Johnson! Why, applause from the house when you first come on. So he has gone on night after night, never getting a hand, and you getting a couple of rounds at least, and sometimes three, till at length he got quite desperate, and had half a mind last night to play Tybalt with a real sword, and pink you—not dangerously, but just enough to lay you up for a month or two.”
“Very considerate,” remarked Nicholas.
“Yes, I think it was under the circumstances; his professional reputation being at stake,” said Mr. Folair, quite seriously. “But his heart failed him, and he cast about for some other way of annoying you, and making himself popular at the same time—for that’s the point. Notoriety, notoriety, is the thing. Bless you, if he had pinked you,” said Mr. Folair, stopping to make a calculation in his mind, “it would have been worth—ah, it would have been worth eight or ten shillings a week to him. All the town would have come to see the actor who nearly killed a man by mistake; I shouldn’t wonder if it had got him an engagement in London. However, he was obliged to try some other mode of getting popular, and this one occurred to him. It’s a clever idea, really. If you had shown the white feather, and let him pull your nose, he’d have got it into the paper; if you had sworn the peace against him, it would have been in the paper too, and he’d have been just as much talked about as you—don’t you see?”
“Oh, certainly,” rejoined Nicholas; “but suppose I were to turn the tables, and pull his nose, what then? Would that make his fortune?”
“Why, I don’t think it would,” replied Mr. Folair, scratching his head, “because there wouldn’t be any romance about it, and he wouldn’t be favourably known. To tell you the truth though, he didn’t calculate much upon that, for you’re always so mild-spoken, and are so popular among the women, that we didn’t suspect you of showing fight. If you did, however, he has a way of getting out
