Trueman. Only think now of his sending me a challenge, because I told him he was sixty odd years of—
Loveyet. [Running towards them.] Death and the devil! Have I sent you a challenge?
Humphry. No, not you, old gentleman.
Loveyet. I'll give you old gentleman.—Take that, for calling me old again. [Offers to strike him; but missing his blow, he falls down.] Oh, what an unlucky dog I am! My evil genius is certainly let loose today.
Trueman. Let us coolly enquire into this enigmatical affair, Mr. Loveyet. [Breaks open the note, and reads.] What is all this?—Booby—blockhead—satisfaction—challenge—courage—honour—gentleman—honour'd per Monsieur Cubb.
Humphry. Aye, that's I.
Trueman. And pray, Mr. Cubb, who gave you this pretty epistle?
Humphry. Why, mounsieur, the barber.
Trueman. By the dignity of my profession, it must be so:—Now there's a solution to the enigma.—Mr. Loveyet, you will excuse my mistaking this business so much;—the paltry Frisieur never enter'd my head;—you recollect I gave him a little flagellation this morning.
Loveyet. Yes, and I recollect the occasion too;—this confounded upstart Constitution (that cause of all my crosses and troubles) is at the bottom of every mischief.