A DUEL.
"Paris at last," exclaimed Harvey.
"That's a good job, for I am tired of sitting, and want to stretch my
legs; don't you, Mr. Mole?" said young Jack.
"Don't be ridiculous, Jack," replied Mr. Mole.
Harkaway senior, who had been looking out of the window, drew in his
head and said--
"Well, Mr. Mole, you are in a nice fix."
"How?"
"I don't see any----"
"Any what?"
"Any cabs."
"The ----"
"Don't swear."
"My dear Mr. Harkaway, now if you were without legs, would not you
swear?"
"Can't say, having the proper number of pins."
"You'll have to walk," said Harvey. "There's not a cab in the station."
"But how can I walk?"
"Don't you remember the hero in the ballad of Chevy Chase?"
"Who was he?"
"The song says Witherington, but we will call him Mole."
"'For Mole, indeed, my heart is woe,
As one in doleful dumps;
For when his feet were cut away,
He walked upon his stumps.'"
By this time the train had stopped, and all the party got out, except
Mole.
As Harkaway had said, there was no vehicle in the station nor outside
of it, so Mr. Mole was obliged to remain till his friends could hit
upon some plan for removing him.
A porter was the first to make a suggestion.
"An artificial limb maker lives opposite, monsieur," said he.
"Ah!"
"If I carried monsieur over, he might have some--ah--substitutes fitted
on."
"A capital idea!" exclaimed Harvey; "over with him." And before Mole
could remonstrate, he was hoisted to the porter's shoulders, and
trotted across the street.
Great was the joy of the Parisian _gamins_ at having such a sight
provided for their amusement.
Mole, however, bravely bore the chaff, half of which he did not
understand.
The maker of artificial limbs soon fitted poor Mole with a pair of
legs.
But alas!
No sooner had he stood upon them than his friends burst out in a loud
laugh.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded Mr. Mole, who felt inclined to
stand on his dignity as well as on his new legs.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
"I wonder you don't remember what Goldsmith says," continued Mole.
"What does he say, Mr. Mole?"
"Don't you remember that line about 'the loud laugh that speaks the
vacant mind.' I fear your mind must be very vacant, Mr. Harvey."
"He had you there, Uncle Dick," said young Jack.
"Pooh! But look at his legs."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed young Jack in turn.
Mr. Mole's trousers, it will be recollected, had been cut away below
the knees immediately after his railway accident, and now he stood in a
pair of nicely-varnished boots, above which could be seen the various
springs and hinges of his mechanical limbs.
The trouser legs were not longer in proportion than a small boy's
knickerbockers.
By this time, however, a cab or two had turned up, and, the ladies
having been fetched from the railway waiting-room, the whole party
proceeded to one of the many good hotels Paris possesses.
* * * *
The third evening after their arrival, young Jack and Harry Girdwood
strolled out together.
They no doubt would have enjoyed the company of the two girls, but
little Emily and Paquita had been roving about the town all day long,
and were too tired to go out that evening.
"What is this place, Jack?" asked Harry, as they both paused in front
of a narrow, but brilliantly-lighted doorway.
"A shooting gallery, I fancy."
"Shall we go in?"
"Certainly; but I don't fancy the French are very great 'shootists,' as
the Yankees say."
"All the more fun, perhaps."
And without more talk, the youngsters walked in.
It was a long room, divided by slight partitions into four different
galleries, and at the end of each of these was a target in the shape of
a doll.
After watching others for a time, Harry took half a dozen shots at one
of the figures, which he struck four times.
Young Jack then tried, and was equally successful.
"Good shooting, young gentlemen," said one of the spectators, an
Englishman; "but if you want to see real pistol practice, look at this
Frenchman."
And he pointed to a tall, dark man who was just preparing to fire.
The target he had before him was not a little doll like the others, but
a full-sized lay figure dressed in black, closely buttoned up, and
holding in its hand an empty pistol pointed towards the live shooter.
"He is a noted duellist," said the Englishman, "and has killed more
than one adversary."
Jack and Harry looked at him with considerable curiosity, with which
was mixed a tinge of loathing.
The duellist had brought his own pistols, one of which he carefully
loaded, and having placed himself in position, rapidly aimed and fired.
Instantly the lay figure showed a spot of white on its black coat,
which, after all, was only made of a kind of paste or varnish, which
chipped off when struck by the bullet.
"Straight to the heart," said the Englishman.
"That's good shooting," exclaimed Harry Girdwood.
The Frenchman fired again, making an equally good shot.
When he had fired ten, young Jack for the first time broke silence.
"I don't believe he could do that in the field with a live adversary
and a loaded pistol opposite him."
The Frenchman again pulled the trigger, but the eleventh shot flew wide
of the mark.
Almost foaming with passion at having missed his aim, he dashed the
weapon to the ground.
"I must request the gentleman who spoke to stand the test."
"With great pleasure," responded Jack, coolly.
The Frenchman stared at the speaker.
"Bah! I don't fight with boys."
"Then I shall proclaim to all Paris that you are a cur, and try to back
out of a quarrel when your challenge is accepted."
"Very well, then, you shall die in the morning. Henri,"--this to a
friend--"arrange with the English boy's second if he has one; if he has
not, find him one."
The Englishman who had previously spoken at once stepped forward and
offered his services.
"Although," said he, "I should much prefer to see this affair settled
peacefully."
"I am entirely in your hands, sir," responded Jack.
And he retired to the other side of the room.
"Jack, Jack! what demon possessed you to get into such a mess?"
"No demon, Harry, but some of my father's hot blood. He was always very
prompt to accept a challenge."
"He will not let you fight."
"He will not know till it is settled. Listen to me, Harry, if you tell
him or anyone else, or try to stop the plan that my second may propose,
I swear I'll never speak to you again."
"But you stand every chance of being killed."
"Harry, we have both of us faced death many times, and I am sure I am
not going to turn my back on a Frenchman."
Poor Harry could say nothing more.
The Englishman rejoined them.
"I can't get that fellow to accept an apology----!"
"That's right," interposed Jack.
His second looked surprised at the youth's coolness, and continued--
"So I must parade you in the Bois de Boulogne at sunrise. It's about an
hour's drive."
"Where shall we meet you?"
The second hesitated, and then named a time and place.
"Now," said Jack, "I will go and have a little sleep; not at home, but
somewhere in this neighbourhood."
They went to a respectable hotel close by, and Jack, having made a few
simple arrangements (including a message to Emily), in case of being
killed, laid himself on his bed, and was soon slumbering peacefully.
* * * *
About a quarter of an hour after the sun had risen, they were all upon
the ground.
Jack and Harry with their second, and the Frenchman with his.
There was also a surgeon present.
Little time was lost.
The pistols were loaded, according to previous arrangement between the
two seconds, with a lighter charge than usual, so that Jack might
possibly escape with only a flesh wound instead of having a hole
drilled right through him.
The combatants were then placed half facing each other, fifteen paces
apart.
"There is a grave suspicion afloat that your adversary has an ugly
knack of pulling the trigger half a second too soon," whispered Jack's
second, "so I am going to give him a caution."
A pistol was placed in the hand of each, and then Jack's second spoke.
"Listen, gentlemen. You will fire when I give the word three. If either
pulls the trigger before that word is pronounced, it will be murder."
He looked at the Frenchman, and then counted--
"One, two, three!"
But before the word "three" had fully passed his lips, the Frenchman's
pistol was discharged.
Young Jack, however, prepared for such a trick, had just a moment
before turned full towards him and stared him in the face.
This manoeuvre was entirely successful.
The Frenchman's unfair, murderous aim was disconcerted, and his bullet
whistled harmlessly past our hero's ear.
Jack then deliberately levelled his pistol at the Frenchman, who
trembled violently, and showed every symptom of the most abject terror.
"I thought so," exclaimed Jack. "A vile coward as well as a murderer."
And he discharged his own pistol in the air.
"Why did you not shoot the villain?" exclaimed Harry Girdwood, the
surgeon, and Jack's second simultaneously.
"It would be doing him too much honour, gentlemen. I leave him to the
hangman."
"You should have killed him," growled the surgeon, glancing after the
discomfited duellist, who was sneaking off, unattended even by his own
second.
"I don't feel bloodthirsty just at present, and I have proved the words
that gave rise to the challenge."
"That is true, but some other poor devil may not be so lucky."
"I fancy after this morning's _exposé_ anyone may refuse to go out with
him without fear of dishonour."
"True; that is one good thing."
They re-entered their carriage and returned to Paris.
Just as young Jack alighted from the vehicle, he found himself seized
by the collar and shaken violently.
He turned hastily.
"Dad!"
"You young rascal!" exclaimed Harkaway senior, "where have you been all
night?"
"Why--I--I arranged to go out early in the morning for a drive with
this gentleman and Harry, so I took a room here at this hotel so as to
be close to the rendezvous."
"That is the truth, but not all the truth. Sir, may I ask you the
object of your very early excursion with my son?"
"Well, sir, the fact is, this young gentleman became involved last
night in a little dispute which necessitated an exchange of pistol
shots, and your son, I must say, behaved in a most gallant manner."
"Not touched, Jack?"
"No, dad."
"Did you shoot t'other fellow?"
"No, father; I only shoot game--human or brute. I leave gamekeepers and
hangmen to exterminate vermin."
"Well, now, cut along home. Your mother is in no end of a funk about
you."
* * * *
So Jack went home, and, having explained the reason of his absence, was
soon forgiven by all, except little Emily, who boxed his ears,
declaring it was evident he did not care about her, or he would not
have risked his life in such a manner.
Then she refused, for a whole hour, to speak to him; at the expiration
of which time she kissed him, and asked his pardon for having shown
such bad temper.
"All right, Em. You're a brick."
"Don't talk slang, sir."
* * * *
That same evening they left Paris, and at an early hour the next
morning were in London.