It is strange that this miserable ambition is always strongest where it should exist with the least propriety. I have observed, in travelling through life—and so has the reader, no doubt—that parvenus are the greatest sticklers for aristocratic privilege; and Captain Ransom was no exception to this rule. In tumbling over some old family papers, I had found a receipt from the gallant captain’s grandfather to my own progenitor, acknowledging the payment of a bill for leather breeches.
It so happened that this very receipt was in my portmanteau at the time; and, nettled at the “carryings-on” of the tailor’s grandson, I drew it forth and spread it out upon the mess-table. My brethren of the mess were highly tickled at the document, several of them copying it off for future use.
A copy soon reached Ransom, who, in his hour of indignation, made use of certain expressions that, in their turn, soon reached me.
The result was a challenge, borne by my friend Clayley, and the affair was arranged for the following morning.
The place chosen for our morning’s diversion was a sequestered spot upon the banks of the river Zedena, and along the solitary road that leads out towards the Cofre de Perote.
At sunrise we rode out in two carriages, six of us, including our seconds and surgeons. About a mile from town we halted, and leaving the carriages upon the road, crossed over into a small glade in the midst of the chaparral.
It was as pretty a spot for our purpose as the heart could wish for, and had often, we were informed, been used for similar morning exercises—that was, before chivalry had died out among the descendants of Cortez and the conquerors.
The ground was soon lined off—ten paces—and we took our stands, back to back. We were to wheel at the word “Ready!” and fire at “One, two, three!”
We were waiting for the word with that death-like silence which always precedes a similar signal, when Little Jack, who had been left with the carriages, rushed into a glade, calling with all his might:
“Captain! Captain!”