about something, and had a firm idea that the Major was very angry too.
“But woz’it all been about?” he vainly asked himself. “Woz’it all been about?”
He was roused from his puzzling over this unanswerable conundrum by the clink of the flap in his letter-box. Either this was the first post in the morning, in which case it was much later than he thought, and wonderfully dark still, or it was the last post at night, in which case it was much earlier than he thought. But, whichever it was, a letter had been slipped into his box, and he brought it in. The gum on the envelope was still wet, which saved trouble in opening it. Inside was a half sheet containing but a few words. This curt epistle ran as follows:
- “Sir,
- “My seconds will wait on you in the course of to-morrow morning.
- “Your faithful obedient servant,
- “Benjamin Flint.
- “Your faithful obedient servant,
- “My seconds will wait on you in the course of to-morrow morning.
- Captain Puffin.”
Puffin felt as calm as a tropic night, and as courageous as a captain. Somewhere below his courage and his calm was an appalling sense of misgiving. That he successfully stifled.
“Very proper,” he said aloud. “Qui’ proper. Insults. Blood. Seconds won’t have to wait a second. Better get a good sleep.”
He went up to his room, fell on to his bed and instantly began to snore.
It was still dark when he awoke, but the square of his window was visible against the blackness, and he concluded that though it was not morning yet, it was getting
