This slight salute was forthwith the prelude to an encounter, which the whole train crowded round to witness. I, among the rest, pretending an equal ardour, and an equal interest, and hiding, like many persons in a similar predicament, a most trembling spirit beneath a most valorous exterior.
When the match (which terminated in favour of the lesser champion) was over, “Come, Pelham,” said Dartmore, “let me take up the gloves with you?”
“You are too good!” said I, for the first time using my drawing-room drawl. A wink and a grin went round the room.
“Well, then, will you fence with Staunton, or play at single sticks with me?” said the short, thick, bullying, impudent, vulgar Earl of Calton.
“Why,” answered I, “I am a poor hand at the foils, and a still worse at the sticks; but I have no objection to exchange a cut or two at the latter with Lord Calton.”
“No, no!” said the good-natured Dartmore;—“no, Calton is the best stick-player I ever knew;” and then, whispering me, he added, “and the hardest hitter—and he never spares, either.”
“Really,” said I aloud, in my most affected tone, “it is a great pity, for I am excessively delicate; but as I said I would engage him, I don’t like to retract. Pray let me look at the hilt: I hope the basket is strong: I would not have my knuckles rapped for the world—now for it. I’m in a deuced fright, Dartmore;” and so saying, and inwardly chuckling at the universal pleasure depicted in the countenances of Calton and the by-standers, who were all rejoiced at the idea of the “dandy being drubbed,” I took the stick, and pretended great awkwardness, and lack of grace in the position I chose.
Calton placed himself in the most scientific attitude, assuming at the same time an air of hauteur and nonchalance, which seemed to call for the admiration it met.
“Do we make hard hitting?” said I.
“Oh! by all means,” answered Calton, eagerly.