“Well, for a choice,” says he, smiling, “and whether for sense or poetry, give me
| “‘Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow: The rest is all but leather and prunello.’” |
“Oh, but that’s not fair—that’s Pope! It’s not original, Dudgeon. Understand me,” said I, wringing his breast-button, “the first duty of all poetry is to be mine, sir—mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom, because—to tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style—I am devilish relieved at the turn things have taken. So, I dare say, are you yourself, Dudgeon, if you would only allow it. And à propos, let me ask you a home question. Between friends, have you ever fired that pistol?”
“Why, yes, sir,” he replied. “Twice—at hedge-sparrows.”
“And you would have fired at me, you bloody-minded man?” I cried.
“If you go to that, you seemed mighty reckless with your stick,” said Dudgeon.
“Did I indeed? Well, well, ’tis all past history; ancient as King Pharamond—which is another French word, if you cared to accumulate more evidence,” says I. “But happily we are now the best of friends, and have all our interests in common.”
“You go a little too fast, if you’ll excuse me, Mr.——: I do not know your name, that I am aware,” said Dudgeon.
“No, to be sure!” said I. “Never heard of it!”