"Why, there is but a month or two betwixt us," says I.
"Six months and four days," says he in his dogged fashion; "besides," he went on, argumentatively, "should it come to small-swords, you are a good six inches shorter in the reach than Raikes; now as for me—"
"You!" says I, "Should it come to pistols you could not help but stop a bullet with your vast bulk."
Hereupon Bentley must needs set himself to prove that a big man offered no better target than a more diminutive one, all of which was of course but the purest folly, as I very plainly showed him, whereat he fell a-whistling of the song "Lillibuleero" (as is his custom ever, when at all hipped or put out in any way). And so we presently came to the cross-roads. Now it has been our custom for the past twelve years to finish the day with a game of picquet with our old friend Jack Chester, so that it had become quite an institution, so to speak. What was our surprise then to see Jack himself upon his black mare, waiting for us beneath the finger-post. That he was in one of his passions was evident from the acute angle of his hat and wig, and as we approached we could hear him swearing to himself.
"Bet you fifty it's his daughter," says Bentley.
"Done!" says I, promptly.
"How now, Jack?" says Bentley, as we shook hands.
"May the Devil anoint me!" growled Jack.
"Belike he will," says Bentley.
"Here's an infernal state of affairs!" says Jack, frowning up the road, his hat and wig very much over one eye.