Act the Fourth.
Scene I.—A room at the Dolphin Inn. Guns, pistols, swords, and other weapons scattered around. Whetstone in armor, lying upon a sofa, disquietly sleeping.
Enter Bluegrass carrying a large dictionary.
Bluegrass.
He sleeps. ’Tis well. For centuries men, with eager eyes fixed upon the horizon, have awaited the coming of the purely literary duel. The auspicious morn is about to dawn, in fact, to bloom upon this magnificent star of ours, when, in affairs of honor, bloody swords, odious gunpowder, and slaughtering bullets no longer shall disgrace the planet.
Whetstone [dreaming].
Take away the sword! Do not say I killed you!
Bluegrass.
He dreams of the combat. Rest, warrior, rest! Safe within this volume, and at your timely service, are such dire missiles, fearful and momentous cartridges, bombs, shells, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, mortars, and battering-rams, as have rent nations asunder and awed the world. Can base gunpowder and lead do so much? O puissant volume, armory and magazine, I will select from your mighty stores, for my principal’s sake, weapons which shall strike terror and dismay to his adversary’s heart. Yes, a full dozen of as bold bad words as were ever conned from out thy depths by a dyspeptic writer at midnight hour in editorial den.
[A rooster crows.