“Excuse me, he does nothing of the kind; going out with a professed duellist is like playing cards with a skilful gambler; the chances are very greatly in his favour: in the first place, nine men out of ten would lose their nerve entirely when stationed opposite the pistol of a dead shot; then again, there are a thousand apparent trifles of which the initiated are aware, and which make the greatest difference, such as securing a proper position with regard to the sun, taking care that your figure is not in a direct line with any upright object, a tree or post for instance, and lots of other things of a like nature which we know nothing about, all of which he is certain to contrive to have arranged favourably for himself, and disadvantageously for his opponent. Then, having as it were trained himself for the occasion, he is perfectly cool and collected, and ready to avail himself of every circumstance he might turn to his advantage—a moment's hesitation in pulling the trigger when the signal is given, and he fires first—many a man has received his death-wound before now ere he had discharged his own pistol.”
“My dear boy,” said Harry, “you really are exciting and alarming yourself very unnecessarily; I am not going to quarrel with Wilford or anybody else; I detest active exertion of every kind, and consider duelling as a fashionable compound of iniquity, containing equal parts of murder and suicide—and we'll go to Lawless's this evening, that I'm determined upon—and—let me see—I've got James's new novel in my pocket. I shall not disturb you if I stay here, shall I? I'm not going to talk.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, he stretched himself' at full length on (and beyond) the sofa, and was soon buried in the pages of that best of followers in the footsteps of the mighty Wizard of the North—Walter Scott—leaving me to the somewhat less agreeable task of reading mathematics.
CHAPTER XXI — THE WINE-PARTY
“This night I hold an old-accustomed feast,
Whereto I have invited many a guest,
Such as I love.”
“A fair assembly, whither should they come?
Servant.—Up——-!
Romeo.—Whither?
Servant.—To supper.”
—Shakspeare.
“All is not false that seems at first a lie.”
—Southey.
“Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
I do bite my thumb, sir!
Do you quarrel, sir?
Quarrel, sir! No, sir!
If you do, sir, I am for you.”
—Shakspeare.
LET the reader imagine a long table covered with the remains of an excellent dessert, interspersed with a multitude of bottles of all shapes and sizes, containing every variety of wine that money could procure, or palate desire; whilst in the centre stood a glorious old china bowl of punch, which the guests were discussing in tumblers—wine-glasses having been unanimously voted much too slow. Around this table let there be seated from fifteen to twenty men, whose ages might vary from nineteen to three- or four-and-twenty; some smoking cigars, some talking vociferously, some laughing, some though they were decidedly the minority, listening: but all showing signs of being more or less elated by the wine they had taken. Let the reader imagine all this, and he will have formed a pretty correct idea of the supper-party in Lawless's rooms, as it appeared about ten o'clock on the evening subsequent to the conversation I have just detailed.
“Didn't I see you riding a black horse with one white stocking yesterday, Oaklands?” inquired a young man with a round jovial countenance, which might have been reckoned handsome but for the extreme redness of the complexion, and the loss of a front tooth, occasioned by a fall received in the hunting field, whose name was Richard, or, as he was more commonly termed, Dick Curtis.
“Yes,” replied Oaklands, “I daresay you did; I was trying him.”
“Ah! I fancied he was not one of your own.” “No; he belongs to Tom Barret, who wants me to buy him; but I don't think he's strong enough to carry my weight; there's not substance enough about him; I ride nearly eleven stone.”