Bligh stared at him for a moment, like a man hurt in his feelings but
keeping hold on his Christian compassion. "Look here," he said; "you
mayn't know it, but I'm a bad man to contradict. This here Roman
camp, as I was sayin'--"
"If you mean Little Dinnis Camp, Sir, 'tis as round as my hat."
"Damme, if you interrupt again--"
"But I will. Here, in my own parlour, I tell you that Little Dinnis
is as round as my hat!"
"All right; don't lose your temper, shouting out what I never denied.
Round or square, it don't matter a ha'porth to me. This here round
Roman camp--"
"But I tell you, once more, there's no such thing!" cried the Parson,
stamping his foot. "The Romans never made a round camp in their
lives. Little Dinnis is British; the encampment's British; the
mound, as you call it, is a British barrow; and as for you--"
"As for me," thunders Bligh, "I'm British too, and don't you forget
it. Confound you, Sir! What the devil do I care for your
pettifogging bones? I'm a British sailor, Sir; I come to your
God-forsaken parish on a Government job, and I happen on a whole
shopful of ancient remains. In pure kindness--pure kindness, mark
you--I interrupt my work to dig 'em up; and this is all the thanks I
get!"
"Thanks!" fairly yelled the Parson.
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