Now I was in for it. After all, I thought for traveling with an heiress in this country one needs a suit of armor.
“I'm a born fighter,” I said, “but almost always my weapons have been words. They are the only weapons with which I am thoroughly familiar. I propose that we have a talking-match. Put us, say, ten paces apart and light the fuse and get back out of the way while we explode. We'll load the guns with Italian, if he prefers it, and I'll give him the first shot. After ten minutes you can carry him off the field. He'll be severely wounded, but it won't hurt him any.”
Vincent Aristide de Langueville laughed a little and said:
“But, my dear sir, this is not one joke. We desire the satisfaction.”
“And I will guarantee it,” was my answer.
“But, sir, we must have the fight until the blood comes.”
“Ah, you are looking for blood also,” I said. “Well, I have thought of another weapon which once upon a time I could handle with some skill. Let's have a duel with pitchforks.”
“Pitchforks! What is it?” he asked. “I do not understand.”
“It's a favorite weapon in New England. My great-grandfather fought the Indians and the British with it, and it was one of the weapons with which I fought against poverty when I was a boy. It's a great blood-letter. I used to kill coons and hedgehogs with the pitchfork.”
“Please tell me what it is. What is it?” he pleaded.