‘We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,’ he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutely declined.’
‘Nothing, Sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable himself.
‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer.
‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and preliminaries arranged.
‘You will find these better than your own,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined.
‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, with as much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players.
‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle.
‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’
‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle.
‘All right,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’
It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’—an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence—it always took a long time to undo that cloak—and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other.
Mr. Winkle was always remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of his shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot; and that the circumstance of his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the
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