"Well—just as you like," observed Howard. "We will settle the business the instant we get down there."
"But is the gen'leman sartain the Cap'ain'll be there?" asked the man with the stout stick and the red face.
"Hold your tongue, Proggs!" growled his companion in the shabby black. "These gen'lemen know what they're up to."
Silence then prevailed in the vehicle; and Frank Curtis sate wondering who the strange-looking twain could be. At last he came to the conclusion that they must be constables whom Mr. Howard had called into requisition for the laudable purpose of putting a stop to the duel. Still, such seedy constables were seldom seen: but then, reasoned Frank within himself, they might perhaps be in a state of insolvency—a suspicion certainly warranted by their outward appearance.
The mist-like rain continued; and, though the morning grew a trifle brighter, it was in a very sickly manner. Frank had seldom felt more dispirited in his life, the weather leaguing itself with his own vague apprehensions to render him utterly miserable.
At length the coach reached the vicinity of Battersea Fields; and Mr. Howard pulled the check-string as a signal for the driver to stop.
He then descended; Frank Curtis followed; and the two queer-looking gentlemen alighted also.
"You will keep at a decent distance, Mr. Mac Grab," said Howard, addressing himself to the individual in seedy black.
"Wery good, sir. Proggs," continued Mr. Mac Grab, turning to his companion, "you make a circumbendibus like, so as to cut off the Captain's retreat down yonder. I'll skirt the river a short way, and then drop down on him.".
"All right," growled Mr. Proggs; and off he set in the direction indicated by his master, Mr. Mac Grab.