“Has he been out before?” asked the terrible tiger-slayer, in such horror-stricken accents that I could barely refrain from laughing outright.
“Oh, yes,” I replied carelessly, “five or six times.”
“Has he—has he—I’m not afraid, you know—ha! ha! Joe Boomerang afraid—capital joke—but—but—has he killed anybody?”
“Only poor Lieutenant Jones,” I answered. “You see Jones insulted him personally; his other duels originated in political, not personal, matters. I think,” I added maliciously, “he’ll try to kill you.” The major gurgled as if he had a spasm of some sort in his windpipe. I continued: “I would advise you to furbish up your knowledge of both pistol and sword practice. You’ll have to fight both Davitt and Healy. You’ll be dismissed and disgraced if you decline either challenge. It will be somewhat inconvenient for me to see you through both affairs, but, my dear fellow, I never allow personal inconvenience to interfere with my duty.”
“You’re very good,” he murmured; “but don’t you think that—that—”
“That I may only be wanted for one. Very likely, but let us hope for the best. I know an undertaker in Cork—a decent sort of a chap. We can arrange for the funeral with him, so that, if it don’t come off the first time, he won’t charge anything extra for waiting till Healy kills you.”
“Stop, stop,” screamed the agonized panther pulverizer. “You make me sick.” By this time he had become green, and, as I did not know what alarming combination of colors he might next assume if I continued, I remained silent for some time. As we were nearing Mallow the major managed to get hold of enough of his voice to inquire how it came to pass that the government permitted such a barbarous practice as duelling.
“Well,” I responded, “it’s a re-importation from America. Western institutions are getting quite a hold here. Duelling is winked at in deference to Yankee ideas.”
“Curse America and the Yankees too,” roared Boomerang. “Only for them we would have peace and quiet. They are a pestiferous, rowdy, hellish gang of—”
“Yahoop!” There was a yell from Jack Hickey that shook the roof of the car, as that individual bounded to his feet with a large clasp-knife clutched in his sinewy hand, and a desperate look of fiendish determination on his features that made the mighty Indian hunter collapse and curl up in his corner like a lame hen in a heavy shower. “Where’s the double-distilled essence of the son of a cross-eyed galoot that opens his measly mouth to drop filth and slime about our great and glorious take-it-all-round scrumptious and everlasting republic of America? I’m Yankee, clean grit, from the toe-nails and finger-tips to the backbone, and he’s riz my dander. And when my dander’s riz, I’m bound to have scalps. I’m a roaring, ring-tailed roysterer from the Rocky Mountains, I am; half earthquake and half wildcat, and when I squeal, somebody’s got to creep into a hole! Yahoop! Let me at the blue-moulded skunk till I rip him open. I don’t wait for any ceremonies, sending seconds and all that bosh. I go red-hot, boiling over, like a Kansas cyclone or a Texas steer, straight for the snub-nosed, curly-toothed, red-headed, all-fired Britisher that wakes my lurid fury. Look out, Boomerang. Draw yer knife, for here’s a double-clawed hyena from Colorado going to skiver you.” And Jack made a terrific plunge forward, while he flashed his knife in a hundred wild gyrations that seemed to light up the compartment with gleaming steel. Burke and I made a pretence of throwing ourselves between the mad Yankee and his victim, but it was unnecessary. The hero of Bengal had fainted.