And even then he managed things with so adroit a reluctance that, before the day was over, Mr. Dobb, to clinch matters more effectually, was jockeyed into standing surety for the rent of the little shop, so that Mr. Tridge could enter into tenancy straightway.
For the next twenty-four hours Mr. Tridge was occupied with pails and brooms, getting his establishment into order, to the exclusion of all thoughts about the impending combat. That night, however, he was too tired to sleep, and next morning he again sought out Mr. Dobb to place his resignation in his hands. But Mr. Dobb treated the crisis diplomatically by advancing him the wherewithal to purchase sundry implements of the hair-dressing profession. And, after that, Mr. Tridge could not but vow that he would cause no further concern of mind, and this promise he loyally kept.
None the less a marked moodiness of manner overcame him as the day of the encounter drew near, and often his deportment was that of a man doomed to early disintegration. To cheer him, Mr. Dobb contrived for him a secret meeting with Mr. Burch, who revealed himself as quite an amiable young gentleman, and promised Mr. Tridge that he should receive no real hurt until the final blow of the contest.
“And that,” interpolated Mr. Dobb, encouragingly, “you won’t be in your senses to feel, Joe, for more than a millionth part of a second, so you needn’t worry about that.”
And so we come to the day of the meeting, with Mr. Tridge, now visibly a prey to the direst forebodings, and with but a pathetic interest in his hairdressing shop, ready for immediate opening. For hours Mr. Tridge had gazed round the tiny place, sighing profoundly, as one who has achieved an aim too late in life, or else he had fondled the shining new implements reverently, as if already they were relics.
Mr. Dobb did his best to dissipate these mournful fears, reporting to Mr. Tridge that his financial share in the affair was abundantly secure, and that as soon after the conclusion of the contest as Mr. Tridge was able to think clearly, the landlord of the “Rose and Crown” was empowered to pay out to Mr. Tridge twenty pounds, less the amount already advanced by Mr. Dobb. And also Horace had endeavoured to stimulate Mr. Tridge’s interest in life by causing to be affixed to the wall of the place of meeting a huge poster which announced the imminent opening of the Magnolia Toilet Saloon (proprietor, J. Tridge), Bridge Street, Shorehaven. At six o’clock that evening Mr. Tridge was disturbed in a singularly vain effort to secure a little refreshing slumber, and was called upon to receive Mr. Peter Lock. Mr. Lock, at the earnest request of his old shipmate, had consented to act as Mr. Tridge’s second, and by way of inculcating the proper bright spirit in his principal with a little facetiousness, he now entered the apartment with slow, measured tread, and with extraordinary gravity of mien.
“Joseph Tridge,” announced Mr. Lock, sepulchrally, “your hour is come!”
“Don’t go making a mock of sacred things!” irritably requested Mr. Tridge. “It ain’t funny—not at this minute.”
“Joseph Tridge,” droned on Mr. Lock, undeterred, in the same hollow tones, “have you made your will?”
“It so ’appens,” snapped Mr. Tridge, “I ’ave! This very hafternoon! Thanks be I ain’t left nothing to grinning i-i-enas!”