Nothing. Just as much as the rusty old carbine I have compared him to. He chafes and goads me till--Bah! Nonsense! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," the trooper resumes his march, "all I say is, he is an old man; but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance, in one of the humours he drives me into--he'd go down, sir!"
Mr. George has been so excited that he finds it necessary to wipe his forehead on his shirt-sleeve. Even while he whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, some involuntary shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger behind, not to mention an occasional hasty adjustment with both hands of his open shirt-collar, as if it were scarcely open enough to prevent his being troubled by a choking sensation. In short, Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.

Nothing. He chafes and goads me till - Bah! I am forgetting myself. Mr. Woodcourt," says the trooper; "but I am glad I shall never have the chance of setting spurs to my horse and riding at him in a fair field. For if I had that chance - he'd go down, sir!"
Mr. George wipes his forehead on his shirt-sleeve, and whistles his impetuosity away with the national anthem, but some shakings of his head and heavings of his chest still linger. Allan Woodcourt has not much doubt about the going down of Mr. Tulkinghorn on the field referred to.
