"You must try and find out from any one on the ground; because, if the poor divil isn't a good shot, I wouldn't like to kill him, and I'll let him off easy—I'll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so."
"Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them."
"Here," said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of Rigby's best. Dick opened the case with the utmost care, and took up one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a young child or a lady's hand. He clicked the lock back and forwards a few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced, he said he should like to examine them: "At all events, they want a touch of oil."
"Well, keep them out of the misthriss's sight, Dick, for she might be alarmed."
"Divil a taste," says Dick; "she's a Dawson, and there never was a Dawson yet that did not know men must be men."
"That's true, Dick. I wouldn't mind so much if she wasn't in a delicate situation just now, when it couldn't be expected of the woman to be so stout: so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will bring you anything you want."
Five minutes after, Dick was engaged in cleaning the duelling-pistols, and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the interior of the locks which Dick had just taken off.
"Oh, my heavens! but that's a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir," said Andy, going to take it up.
"Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!" roared Dick, making a rap of the turnscrew at Andy's knuckles.
"Sure I'll save you the throuble o' rubbin' that, Misther Dick, if you let me; here's the shabby leather."