Dalrymple, with a determined wrench at his moustache. "Come on, anyhow,
and let us see what is the matter!"

So we snatched up our hats and ran out, just as Monsieur Robineau seized
the opportunity to drink another tumbler of punch when his wife was
not looking.

Following in the direction of the rest, we took one of the paths behind
the orchestra, and came upon a noisy crowd gathered round a wooden
summer-house.

"It's a fight," said one.

"It's a pickpocket," said another.

"Bah! it's only a young fellow who has been making love to a girl,"
exclaimed a third.

We forced our way through, and there we saw Mr. Frank Sullivan with his
hat off, his arms crossed, and his back against the wall, presenting a
dauntless front to the gesticulations and threats of an exceedingly
enraged young man with red hair, who was abusing him furiously. The
amount of temper displayed by this young man was something unparalleled.
He was angry in every one of his limbs. He stamped, he shook his fist,
he shook his head. The very tips of his ears looked scarlet with rage.
Every now and then he faced round to the spectators, and appealed to
them--or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red and
angry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, and
shook the green fan in Sullivan's face.