“Ah, yes, so it is. I haven’t fought a duel for a week or two, so I’d forgotten. What do you say to crossbows?—or, if they don’t suit, I’m a pretty good hand with the lasso.”
“The choice lies between pistols and swords.”
May flashed another quick glance. Certainly the young man appeared to be in earnest—but the whole thing was absurd. He was on the point of selecting swords, as the first word to come to hand, but decided hurriedly against doing so. It was conceivable Eliphalet, in the heat of his anger, might snatch up a sword and make a dig at him. In the course of one or two previous productions they had fought a few stage-fights, and Eliphalet Cardomay had rather a pretty knack with a blade. Pistols and the thought of speeding lead would very soon destroy the foolish ideas that were possessing him, thought May; so with a world of dignity he said:
“I choose the trusty old bundook.”
“We will meet at midnight by the ruined mill in Jesmond Dene,” said Eliphalet, and walked sedately from the room.
Harrington May sat motionless awhile, regarding his own image in the glass. He felt oddly cold, and his jaw showed a disposition to tremble.
“Whew!” he said, squaring his shoulders. “This is silly! That young upstart is trying to bounce me. Well, we must come back on him heavily, that’s all.”
He rose and finished dressing.
At the stage-door a few members of the company had gathered, and an inspiration seized him to narrate what had occurred. So, with plenty of noise and a liberal allowance of margin for his own repartee, he recounted the side-splitting exchanges that had led up to the challenge.
“What do you think, boys?” he shouted. “It’s pistols for two, at midnight.”