“It is very distressing to me, sir, to give this information,” said Miss Witherfield, “but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.”
“Here, ma’am?” said the magistrate. “Where, ma’am?”
“In Ipswich.”
“In Ipswich, ma’am! A duel in Ipswich!” said the magistrate, perfectly aghast at the notion. “Impossible, ma’am; nothing of the kind can be contemplated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my soul, ma’am, are you aware of the activity of our local magistracy? Do you happen to have heard, ma’am, that I rushed into a prize-ring on the fourth of May last, attended by only sixty special constables; and, at the hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry passions of an infuriated multitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the Middlesex Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam? A duel in Ipswich, ma’am! I don’t think—I do not think,” said the magistrate, reasoning with himself, “that any two men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of the peace, in this town.”
“My information is unfortunately but too correct,” said the middle-aged lady, “I was present at the quarrel.”
“It’s a most extraordinary thing,” said the astounded magistrate. “Muzzle!”
“Yes, your worship.”
“Send Mr. Jinks here, directly! Instantly.”
“Yes, your worship.”