If you were
fifty times as irritable a man as you look, you couldn't quarrel
with me. I'm not young, and I'm not touchy--I'm Boxsious, the
lawyer; the only man in the world who can't be insulted, try it
how you like!"
He chuckled as he said this, and walked away to the window. It
was quite useless to take anything he said seriously, so I
finished preparing my palette for the morning's work with the
utmost serenity of look and manner that I could possibly assume.
"There!" he went on, looking out of the window; "do you see that
fat man slouching along the Parade, with a snuffy nose? That's my
favorite enemy, Dunball. He tried to quarrel with me ten years
ago, and he has done nothing but bring out the hidden benevolence
of my character ever since. Look at him! look how he frowns as he
turns this way. And now look at me! I can smile and nod to him. I
make a point of always smiling and nodding to him--it keeps my
hand in for other enemies. Good-morning! (I've cast him twice in
heavy damages) good-morning, Mr. Dunball. He bears malice, you
see; he won't speak; he's short in the neck, passionate, and four
times as fat as he ought to be; he has fought against my
amiability for ten mortal years; when he can't fight any longer,
he'll die suddenly, and I shall be the innocent cause of it."
Mr. Boxsious uttered this fatal prophecy with extraordinary
complacency, nodding and smiling out of the window all the time
at the unfortunate man who had rashly tried to provoke him.
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