“I am in my second's hands,” I replied.
“And I think you've fought enough,” said Tonks. “How many cartridges did you fire, Lumme?”
“Thirty-two,” said he.
“Well, hang it, you've loosed seventy-nine cartridges between you, and that's more than any other duellists I ever heard of. Let's pull up the sticks * and come in to breakfast.”
* “Pull up sticks”—a football metaphor.—D'H.
“Is honor satisfied?” asked Dick, who had more appreciation of the delicacies of such a sentiment than my prosaic second.
Lumme and I glanced at each other, and we remembered now our past intimacy; also, perhaps, the strain of that fruitless search for each other among those thorny woods.
“Mine is,” said Lumme.