At length Jericho came to the clenching sentence.—“Have you not called a duellist, Cain in high life?”
“Very true, my dear sir. But if Cain is admitted into the circles, it is not for us to object to his introduction. I trust, sir, that I love my fellow-creatures. I hope I know what is due to the family of man; nevertheless I can’t be expected to give up my place in society, from the mere weakness of affection.”
“Seriously, Mr. Candituft,” asked Jericho, “do you expect me to fight Colonel Bones?”
“You placed yourself in my hands, my very dear sir—and though I should lament any fatal issue on your side—when I say lament it, I feel ’twould blight my future existence—nevertheless, as my friend, and as a man in society, as a man owing to the world the efficacy of high example, you must fight.” Thus judged the Hon. Cesar Candituft.
“But I won’t fight,” exclaimed Jericho. “Fighting isn’t in my way.”
Candituft merely observed—“Kicking may be.” Jericho drew himself up. “Pardon me, my dear friend—I”—Candituft struggled with his feelings; at length, he fell upon Jericho’s neck, and in an agony of friendship exclaimed—“Worthiest of beings! Best of creatures! You must fight!”
Jericho was a little subdued by such devotion.—“You really think I must fight?”
“Do you think,” said Candituft, “that the Duke of St. George would suffer a man who refused a challenge to sully the door-step of Red Dragon House? Noblest of men as he is, and kindest of the human race, he would feel it to be his duty to spit upon you. Metaphorically, my dear friend, of course.”
“You are right,” said Jericho, giving his courage a wrench—“I will fight.”
“I knew it”—and Candituft seized Jericho’s hand between his own—“I was sure of it.”