And here a smile half theatrical passed over his features.
“In what can I oblige you, sir?” said the magistrate.
“Well, sir, the soul of wit is brevity; we want a place for an approaching combat between my friend here and a brave from town. Passing by your broad acres this fine morning we saw a pightle, which we deemed would suit. Lend us that pightle, and receive our thanks; ’twould be a favour, though not much to grant: we neither ask for Stonehenge nor for Tempe.”
My friend looked somewhat perplexed; after a moment, however, he said, with a firm but gentlemanly air, “Sir, I am sorry that I cannot comply with your request.”
“Not comply!” said the man, his brow becoming dark as midnight; and with a hoarse and savage tone, “Not comply! why not?”
“It is impossible, sir; utterly impossible!”
“Why so?”
“I am not compelled to give my reasons to you, sir, nor to any man.”
“Let me beg of you to alter your decision,” said the man, in a tone of profound respect.