What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. As they're so fond of each other's society they shan't part company even on that occasion, but shall swing from the same tree. I shouldn't talk like that. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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