The head was withdrawn again, and the door once more slammed violently.
Frank Curtis gave a hollow moan, thrust himself down in the bed, and drew the clothes over his face, as if to shut out some dreadful spectre from his sight.
CHAPTER LXII.
FRANK'S EMBARRASSMENTS.
Thus remained Mr. Frank Curtis for some minutes—each moment expecting that the bed-room door would again open, and that the voice of the terrible Irishman would once more convey some hideous menace to his ears.
But Captain O'Blunderbuss had fairly departed this time; and at length the miserable young man slowly pushed down the clothes, and glanced timidly round the room.
It was no dream—as for an instant he had endeavoured to make himself believe that it was; for there was the chair in the very place where the Captain had sate—there also was the bottle which the Captain had condescended to empty.
"A duel!" groaned Frank, in a sepulchral voice—he who had fought so many in imagination!
Then he remembered that there existed a means of averting all danger from himself; and, elated by the sudden thought, he leapt nimbly from his bed, with the affectionate intention of proceeding forthwith to his uncle, and compelling the old gentleman to go forth and be shot at, whether by Captain Mordaunt or Captain O'Blunderbuss, Frank did not care a fig.
Having hastily dressed himself, the young gentleman hurried off to Jermyn Street: and, on his arrival, he was surprised to find the knight's travelling-carriage at the door, while the servants were busily employed in piling up portmanteaus, and hat-boxes, and bandboxes, and carpet-bags.
"Halloa!" cried Frank to Jeffreys, the groom, who was in the act of hoisting one of the aforesaid articles of luggage to another servant who stood upon the roof of the vehicle: "what does all this mean?"