"Take care, or I'll prove it!" There was a dead silence all over the room.

Fletcher did not know what was coming, and though he felt uneasy, he had gone too far to go back.
"I can't understand," he began, "why you should have this unkind feeling towards me.

I can only repeat, in spite of what you say, that I _am_ your friend." "Very well," returned the other, with an angry flash in his eyes, "as it was partly an attack on myself, I had meant to have said nothing about it; but since you persist in your miserable hypocrisy, I'll expose you .-- You remember," he continued, turning to the audience, and speaking with a ring of bitter scorn in his voice, "that paltry rhyme that was fastened on the notice-board after the Town match?
Well, allow me to introduce you to the author of it.

He was too modest to sign his name to it, but here he is, all the same--a fellow who tries to bring ridicule and contempt on his own side; who stabs a man in the dark, and in the daylight professes to be his friend." A derisive groan rose from the crowd.
"You can't prove it!" retorted Fletcher, turning first white and then red.
"I can prove it up to the hilt.

You had the confounded cheek to borrow from me the very book of songs you used when you wrote the parody, and you were fool enough to leave the rough copy in it when you brought it back.