the deadly weapons, and who, at her request, had promised to do so with cartridges from which the bullets had previously been bereft.

Such a piece of good news so enlivened Mr Bhosh, that he immediately recovered his usual serenity, and astounded all by his perfect[36] nonchalance. It was arranged that the tragical affair should come off in the back garden of Baronet Jolly's castle, immediately after breakfast, in the presence of a few select friends and neighbours, among whom—needless to say—was Princess Petunia, whose lamp-like optics beamed encouragement to her Indian champion, and the Duchess of Dickinson, who was now the freehold tenement of those fiendish Siamese twins—Malice and Jealousy. At breakfast, Mr Bhosh partook freely of all the dishes, and rallied his antagonist for declining another fowl-egg, rather wittily suggesting that he was becoming a chicken-hearted. The company then adjourned to the garden, and all who were non-combatants took up positions as far outside the zone of fire as possible.

[36]

Mr Bhosh was rejoiced to receive from the above-mentioned Mr Bodgers a secret intimation that it was the put-up job, and little piece of allright, which emboldened him to make the rather spirited proposal[37] to his lordship, that they were to fire—not at the distance of one hundred paces, as originally suggested—but across the more restricted space of a nosekerchief. This dare-devilish proposal occasioned a universal outcry of horror and admiration; Mr Bhosh's seconder, a young poor-hearted chap, entreated him to renounce his plan of campaign, while Lord Jack and Mr Bodgers protested that it was downright tomfolly.

[37]

Chunder, however, remained game to his backbone. "If," he ironically said, "my honble friend prefers to admit that he is inferior in physical courage to a native Indian who is commonly accredited with a funky heart, let him apologise. Otherwise, as a challenged, I am the Master of the Ceremonies. I do not insist upon the exchange of more than one shoot—but it is the sine quâ non that such shoot is to take place across a nosewipe."

Upon which his lordship became green as grass with apprehensiveness, being unaware[38] that the cartridges had been carefully sterilised, but glueing his courage to the sticky point, he said, "Be it so, you bloodthirsty little beggar—and may your gore be on your own knob!"

[38]

"It is always barely possible," retorted Mr 

 Prev. P 18/64 next