"Captain O'Blunderbuss, at your service, my dear frind," was the answer, while the individual who gave it helped himself to another glass of the whiskey, which was certainly the best that the Stilton Cheese round the corner could supply.
"Delighted to form your acquaintance, Captain!" exclaimed Curtis, suddenly becoming a trifle less familiar,—for the name was well known to him, in connexion too with the notoriety of a duellist. "And might I inquire what business——"
"Oh! we'll talk about that presently," interrupted the Captain. "Your uncle, Sir-r Christopher Blunt, recommended you to me in the strongest ter-rms—the most flatter-ring ter-rms, I may say——"
"Indeed!" ejaculated Mr. Curtis, with unfeigned surprise—for he had not seen, nor spoken to the knight for some weeks.
"Be the power-rs! he gave you a splindid char-r-acter, Misther Curtis!" cried Captain O'Blunderbuss; "and it was quite longing to know ye, I was. But we'll talk on business presently. I'm in no hurry—and we'll have a cozie chat first. May be my name is not altogether strange to ye?"
"By no means," answered Curtis, now thoroughly convinced that the object of his new friend's visit was altogether of an amicable character. "I have heard of your renown, and must say that I have envied it. But I've done a little in the same line myself—chiefly in France, though. I'll be bound the name of the Marquis of Soupe-Maigre is not unknown to you."
"Yes—I've heard spake of it," returned the Captain, helping himself to another glass of whiskey.
"Well—the Duke and me fought with small swords for three hours one morning," continued Frank; "and at length I managed to scratch the little finger of his left hand. In France, you know, a duel always ends when the first blood is drawn; and so the Count flung away his sword, acknowledged that I'd beat him, and we've been bosom friends ever since."
"Give me your hand, my broth of a boy!" exclaimed the Captain: "I was not desayved in you! You're as fine spirited as your potheen. Why! be the power-rs, you're a confir-rmed duellist."
"To be sure! and I have killed my man, too," responded Frank, delighted to perceive that he had made a deep impression on his companion. "There was the famous Spaniard, you know—what was his name again? Oh! ah! Don Juan Stiletto del Guerilla! He was a dreadful fellow—the terror of all Paris, where he was staying when I was also there. Well, one evening—it was at the King's fancy-ball—this Portuguese fellow gave himself such airs that there was no bearing him. He insulted all the gentlemen, and smirked at all the ladies. At length the Archbishop of Paris, who was in full canonicals, appealed to me to put down the insolent Italian; I undertook the task—and picked a quarrel with him in no time. The ladies all looked upon me as one devoted to death: and though I say it who shouldn't, a great deal of tender sympathy was shown towards me. Well, next morning me and the German met on the very top of Montmartre; and in a quarter of an hour my gentleman was weltering in his blood. That affair won for me the love of the beautiful Countess of Dunkirk:—but she is gone down to the tomb—and I am left behind to mourn her loss!"