"But none the less," added Bentley, stoutly, "a pretty fellow with a good leg, a quick hand and a true eye, Dick—one who can tell 'a hawk from a hern-shaw' as the saying is."
"Which I take leave to doubt," says I, sourly, "or he would have fallen in with our wishes and married Pen a year ago, instead of running away like a craven fool!"
"But bethink you, Dick," says Bentley flushing, "he had never so much as seen her and, when he heard we were all so set on having him married, he writ me saying he 'preferred a wife of his own choosing' and then—well, he bolted!"
"Like a fool!"
"'Twas very natural," snorted Bentley, redder in the face than ever. "And what's more, he's a fine lad, a lovable lad, and a very fine gentleman into the bargain, as you will be the first to admit when—" but here Bentley broke off to turn and look at me mighty solemn all at once: "Dick," says he, "do you think young Raikes is so great a swordsman as they say?"
"Yes," I answered bitterly, "and that's why I grieve for our poor Jack."
"Jack?" says Bentley, staring like a fool, "Jack—ah yes, to be sure—to be sure."
"I tell you, Bentley," I continued, impressively, "so sure as he crosses swords with the fellow, Jack is a dead man."
"Humph!" says Bentley, after we had gone some little way in silence. "Man Dick, I'm greatly minded to tell thee a matter."
"Well?" I enquired, listlessly.