“Yes,” said Goldsmith quickly, “that is just what I wish to have a word with you about. The fact is, Baretti, I am not so good a swordsman as I should be.”
“What,” cried Baretti, smiling as he looked at the man before him, who had certainly not the physique of the ideal swordsman. “What, do you mean to fight your detractors? Take my advice, my friend, let the pen be your weapon if such is your intention. If you are attacked with the pen you should reply with the same weapon, and with it you may be pretty certain of victory.”
“Ah, yes; but there are cases—well, one never knows what may happen, and a man in my position should be prepared for any emergency. I can do a little sword play—enough to enable me to face a moderately good antagonist. A pair of coxcombs insulted me a few days ago and I retorted in a way that I fancy might be thought effective by some people.”
“How did you retort?”
“Well, I warned the passers-by that the pair were pickpockets disguised as gentlemen.”
“Bacchus! An effective retort! And then——”
“Then I turned down a side street and half drew my sword; but, after making a feint of following me, they gave themselves over to a bout of swearing and went on. What I wish is to be directed by you to any compatriot of yours who would give me lessons in fencing. Do you know of any first-rate master of the art in London?”
The Italian could not avoid laughing, Goldsmith spoke so seriously.
“You would like to find a maestro who would be capable of turning you into a first-rate swordsman within the space of a week?”
“Nay, sir, I am not unreasonable; I would give him a fortnight.”