tion he may have made, not in anywise intended to injure him, further than in the wound to his honour at being so insulted, for which, of course, he must subsequently call you out. Whereas, Charley, in the present case—the view I take is different; the expression of Mr. Bodkin, as regards your uncle, was insulting to a degree—gratuitous offensive, and warranting a blow. Therefore, my boy, you should, under such circumstances, have preferred aiming at him with a decanter—a cut-glass decanter, well aimed, and low, I have seen do effective service. However, as you remark, it was your first thing of the kind, I am pleased with you—very much pleased with you. New, then, for the next step;” so saying, he arose from his bed, and striking a light with a tinder-box, proceeded to dress himself as leisurely as if for a dinner-party—talking all the while.
“I will just take Godfrey’s tax-cart and the roan mare on to Meelish; put them up at the little inn—it is not above a mile from Bodkin’s—and I’ll go ever and settle the thing far you: you must stay quiet till I come back, and not leave the house on any account. I’ve got a case of old broad barrels there that will answer you beautifully; if you were anything of a shot, I’d give you my own cross handles, but they’d only spoil your shooting.”
“I can hit a wineglass in the stem at fifteen paces,” said I, rather nettled at the disparaging tone in which he spoke of my performance.
“I don’t care sixpence for that: the wineglass had no pistol in his hand. Yake the old German, then; see now, hold your pistol thus: no finger on the guard there, those two on the trigger. They are not hair-triggers; drop the muzzle a bit; bend your elbow a trifle more; sight your man outside your arm; outside, mind, and take him in the hip, and, if anywhere higher, no matter.”
By this time the Count had completed his toilette, and taking the small mahogany box, which contained his peace-makers, under his arm, led the way towards the stables. When we reached the yard, the only person stirring there was a kind of half-witted boy, who, being about the house, was employed to run of messages for the servants, walk a stranger’s horse, or to do any of the many petty services that regular domestics contrive always to devolve upon some adopted subordinate. He was seated upon a stone step, formerly used for mounting, and, the the day was scarcely breaking, and the weather severe and piercing, the poor fellow was singing an Irish song, in a low monotonous tone, as he chafed a curb chain between his hands with some sand. As we came near he started up, and, as he pulled off his cap to salute us, gave a sharp and piercing glance at the Count, then at me; then once more upon my companion, from whom his eyes were turned to the brass-bound box beneath his arm, when, as if seized with a sudden impulse, he started on his feet and set off towards the house with the speed of a greyhound, not, however, before Considine’s practised eye had anticipated his plan; for, throwing down the pistol-case, he dashed after him, and in an instant had seized him by the collar.
“It won’t do, Patsey,” said the Count, “you can’t double on me.”
“Oh, Count, darlin’, Mister Considine avick, don’t do it, don’t now,” said the poor fellow, falling on his knees, and blubbering like an infant.
