“You’re not going to fight—with—guns—are you, and all about me?”
“Keep your mind easy, Mary dear,” said Tom. “I don’t suppose we shall hurt each other. And listen, Mary, I’ve made up my mind not to fire at his head or body. I might let his little life out, you know. I mean to aim at those thin legs of his.”
“Oh dear! oh dear!” mourned Mary, wringing her hands. “And where,” she asked innocently, “will you fecht?”
“Oh,” replied Tom, as he rolled out a piece of paste, “there is only one place. Smith knows it well, because I had a pugilistic encounter there with a butcher. Round at the seaside of the Broad Hill. There won’t be a soul there at that time of the morning. Pass the gravy, Mary.”
. . . . . .
It was some time past eleven o’clock. At the police-station near the Tolbooth, a serjeant and one or two burly night-watchmen sat before a roaring fire talking and laughing, when there entered a very pretty dark-eyed maiden, with a shawl about her head. She appeared to be in very great grief and trouble. But after she had told her story, she seemed comforted, because in very kind tones the sergeant had replied—
“You keep your mind easy, my dear. Just go home and go to bed. We’ll make it all right. Shall one of my men see you safe home?”
“Oh, no,” was the reply, “I’ll soon run home.”
. . . . . .
Tom and his second, Smith, were up and dressed even before the stars, that had been shining so brightly all night, had commenced to pale before the coming of day. Smith, after warming coffee, busied himself in getting the irons ready.