Well, among Sandie’s intimate friends was a tall, pale-faced, aristocratic-looking English lad named Coleman; a student our hero also knew was Tom Brierly, a far more robust and daring-looking youth—a scapegrace, I fear. At the University in the far North quarrels generate very simply sometimes. For example, there lived with her mother in Upper Kirkgate a girl of about seventeen. Sweet seventeen it was in her case, for she was very beautiful, with eyes of darkest hazel, eyelashes that swept her cheeks, and a complexion like strawberries and cream. Her mother and she made and sold tuppenny pies. They did a good trade all day, but towards evening and up till eleven o’clock that trade became a roaring one.
Well, Tom Brierly fell in love, or pretended to, with bonnie Mary Mayne, and used to appear upon the festive scene every evening and eat pies, till one could not have helped wondering how he could contain so many. He also got Mary to teach him how to make them, and after he became an adept he used to stand by her side and turn them out by the dozen. For Tom was not a bit shy. On Sunday evenings the pair used to go to church together if it rained, or out for a long walk if the weather was fine. In fact, they were looked upon by all as sweethearts, and it was even rumoured that Tom, who, by the way, was a clergyman’s son, was going to marry Mary soon, and take up a pie-shop on his own account, which of course would be doing infinite honour to his reverend daddie.
However, to make a long story short, who should Tom find one evening when he paid his usual visit, but tall young Coleman, leaning over the counter with a sickly smile on his face as he breathed sweet nothings and the flavour of caramels in bonnie Mary’s face.
Tom wasn’t a man of many words, so he simplified matters and brought them to an abrupt conclusion by seizing Coleman by his garments above and below, and flinging him straight into the street. Coleman gathered himself up.
“I cannot fight you with fists,” he said in a voice as like thunder as a hen’s might be, “but a friend of mine shall call on you within an hour.”
And sure enough a friend did.
Tom was laughing and joking with Mary, and turning out pie after pie with extraordinary agility.
He hardly looked up.
“I won’t disappoint you,” he said; “keep your mind easy. I choose pistols. My friend Smith, of 36 Union Terrace, will provide them. Yes, seven o’clock, or say 7.30. We’d hardly see before. Go now and look Smith up.”
And Tom coolly proceeded to turn out another pie. But poor Mary had turned pale.