"Retract!" roars Jack, "retract—not a word, not a syllable; I repeat, Sir Harry Raikes is a scoundrel and a liar—"
"Very good, my dear Sir John," says the Captain, with another bow; "it will be small-swords, I presume?"
"They will serve," says Jack.
"And the time and place?"
"Just so soon as I can use this leg of mine," says Jack, "and I know of no better place than this room. Any further communication you may have to make, you will address to my friend here, Sir Richard Eden, who will, I think, act for me?"
"Act for you?" I repeated, in great distress, "yes, yes—assuredly."
"Then we will leave it thus for the present, Sir John," says the Captain, bowing and turning away, "and I trust your foot will speedily be well again."
"Which is as much as wishing me speedily dead!" says Jack, with a rueful shake of the head. "Raikes is a devil of a fellow and generally pinks his man—eh, Dick and Bentley?"
"Oh, my poor Jack!" sighed Bentley, turning his broad back upon Sir Harry, who, having bowed to us very formally, swaggered off with the others at his heels.
"Man, Jack," says I, "you'll never fight—you cannot—you shall not!"