Whetstone.
Don’t, Major, don’t!
Bluegrass.
With some archness in archery, I first chose crossbows as most fitting for lovers’ duels, but abandoned them as too crosswise. Blunderbusses I rejected, as too blundering for us; and, noting the weakness of our enemy in diction, I at last chose dictionaries, big and unabridged, and made by the most celebrated word-smiths.
Whetstone.
Dictionaries! Did you say dictionaries? Major, now my anger is reviving. Now, by all that’s terrible, I’ll fight till there’s not a leaf or lid left. Why, the first blow I give him shall be a jaw-breaker. He’ll think himself smitten, like the Philistines, by a jawbone. Major, get me a dictionary with iron clasps; but one is not enough, my boy. I’ll strike him with two dictionaries.
[Rooster crows.
Bluegrass.
Erroneous hero! You are in honor bound not to deal him any blows with vulgar material-bound paper.
Whetstone.