Bluegrass.
Head it is. I’ve won! I place Fopdoodle with the moon in his face, and Whetstone with the planet Mars at his back. [Measures off two paces and places the principals.] In affairs of honor, delay is a vice, despatch a virtue. I propose, between each fire, thirty seconds for loading, that after the words, One, two,—fire! each one shall fire, and that this continue until one be prostrated; also that Surgeon Scythe give the word and be referee. But we’ll try to preserve a gentlemanly harmony.
Tom.
We agree.
[Each second supports his principal, and Scythe times them with his watch.
Fopdoodle.
Tom, my man, turn to the C’s; I know a terrible animal noun in the C’s.
Bluegrass.
Here, Mayor Whetstone, is your adjective for gunpowder,—Patagonian.
Whetstone.