Squire Egan was as good as his word. He picked out the most suitable horsewhip for chastising the fancied impertinence of Murtough Murphy; and as he switched it up and down with a powerful arm, to try its weight and pliancy, the whistling of the instrument through the air was music to his ears, and whispered of promised joy in the flagellation of the jocular attorney.

“We’ll see who can make the sorest blister,” said the squire.

“I’ll back whalebone against Spanish flies any day. Will you bet, Dick?” said he to his brother-in-law, who was a wild, helter-skelter sort of fellow, better known over the country as Dick the Divil than Dick Dawson.

“I’ll back your bet, Ned.”

“There’s no fun in that, Dick, as there is nobody to take it up.”

“May be Murtough will. Ask him before you thrash him: you’d better.”

“As for him” said the squire, “I’ll be bound he’ll back my bet after he gets a taste o’ this;” and the horsewhip whistled as he spoke.

“I think he had better take care of his back than his bet,” said Dick as he followed the squire to the hall-door, where his horse was in waiting for him, under the care of the renowned Andy, who little dreamed of the extensive harvest of mischief which was ripening in futurity, all from his sowing.

“Don’t kill him quite, Ned,” said Dick, as the squire mounted to his saddle.

“Why, if I went to horsewhip a gentleman, of course I should only shake my whip at him; but an attorney is another affair. And, as I’m sure he’ll have an action against me for assault, I think I may as well get the worth of my money out of him, to say nothing of teaching him better manners for the future than to play off his jokes on his employers.” With these words off he rode in search of the devoted Murtough, who was not at home when the squire reached his house; but as he was returning through the village, he espied him coming down the street in company with Tom Durfy and the widow, who were laughing heartily at some joke Murtough was telling them, which seemed to amuse him as much as his hearers.

“I’ll make him laugh at the wrong side of his mouth,” thought the squire, alighting and giving his horse to the care of one of the little ragged boys who were idling in the street. He approached Murphy with a very threatening aspect, and confronting him and his party so as to produce a halt, he said, as distinctly as his rage would permit him to speak, “You little insignificant blackguard, I’ll teach you how you’ll cut your jokes on me again; I’ll blister you, my buck!” and laying hands on the astonished Murtough with the last word, he began a very smart horsewhipping of the attorney. The widow screamed, Tom Durfy swore, and Murtough roared, with some interjectional curses. At last he escaped from the squire’s grip, leaving the lappel of his coat in his possession; and Tom Durfy interposed his person between them when he saw an intention on the part of the flagellator to repeat his dose of horsewhip.

“Let me at him, sir, or by ”

“Fie, fie, squire! to horsewhip a gentleman like a cart-horse.”

“A gentleman! an attorney you mean.”

“I say a gentleman, Squire Egan,” cried Murtough fiercely, roused to gallantry by the presence of a lady, and smarting under a sense of injury and whalebone. “I’m a gentleman, sir, and demand thesatisfaction of a gentleman. I put my honour into your hands, Mr. Durfy.”

“Between his finger and thumb, you mean, for there’s not a handful of it,” said the squire.

“Well, sir,” replied Tom Durfy, “little or much, I’ll take charge of it. That’s right, my cock,” said he to Murtough, who notwithstanding his desire to assume a warlike air, could not resist the natural impulse of rubbing his back and shoulders which tingled with pain, while he exclaimed, “Satisfaction! satisfaction!”

“Very well,” said the squire, “you name yourself as Mr. Murphy’s friend?” added he to Durfy.

“The same, sir,” said Tom. “Whom do you name as yours?”

“I suppose you know one Dick the Divil?”

“A very proper person, sir; no better: I’ll go to him directly.”

The widow clung to Tom’s arm, and looking tenderly at him, cried, “Oh, Tom, Tom, take care of your precious life!”

“Bother!” said Tom.

“Ah, Squire Egan, don’t be so bloodthirsty!”

“Fudge, woman!” said the squire.

“Ah, Mr. Murphy, I’m sure the squire’s very sorry for beating you.”

“Divil a bit,” said the squire.

“There, ma’am,” said Murphy, “you see he’ll make no apology.”

“Apology!” said Durfy, “apology for a horsewhipping, indeed! Nothing but handing a horsewhip (which I wouldn’t ask any gentleman to do), or a shot, can settle the matter.”

“Oh, Tom! Tom! Tom!” said the widow.

“Ba! ba! ba!” shouted Tom, making a crying face at her. “Arrah, woman, don’t be making a fool of yourself. Go in to the ’pothecary’s, and get something under your nose to revive you: and let us mind our own business.”

The widow with her eyes turned up, and an exclamation to Heaven, was retiring to M’Garry’s shop, wringing her hands, when she was nearly knocked down by M’Garry himself, who rushed from his own door, at the same moment that an awful smash of his shop-window and the demolition of his blue and red bottles alarmed the ears of the bystanders, while their eyes were drawn from the late belligerent parties to a chase which took place down the street of the apothecary, roaring “Murder!” followed by Squire O’Grady with an enormous cudgel.

O’Grady, believing that M’Garry and the nurse-tender had combined to serve him with a writ, determined to wreak double vengeance on the apothecary, as the nurse had escaped him; and, notwithstanding all his illness and the appeals of his wife, he left his bed and rode to the village, to “break every bone in M’Garry’s skin.” When he entered the shop, the pharmacopolist was much surprised, and said, with a congratulatory grin at the great man, “Dear me, Squire O’Grady, I’m delighted to see you.”

“Are you, you scoundrel!” said the squire, making a blow of his cudgel at him, which was fended off by an iron pestle the apothecary fortunately had in his hand. The enraged O’Grady made a rush behind the counter, which the apothecary nimbly jumped over, crying, “Murder!” as he made for the door, followed by his pursuer, who gave a back-handed slap at the window-bottles en passant, and produced the crash which astonished the widow, who now joined her screams to the general hue and cry; for an indiscriminate chase of all the ragamuffins in the town, with barking curs and screeching children, followed the flight of M’Garry and the pursuing squire.

“What the divil is all this about?” said Tom Durfy, laughing. “By the powers! I suppose there’s something in the weather to produce all this fun though it’s early in the year to begin thrashing, for the harvest isn’t in yet. But, however, let us manage our little affair, now that we’re left in peace and quietness, for the blackguards are all over the bridge after the hunt. I’ll go to Dick the Divil immediately, squire, and arrange time and place.”

“There’s nothing like saving time and trouble on these occasions,” said the squire. “Dick is at my house, I can arrange time and place with you this minute, and he will be on the ground with me.”

“Very well,” said Tom; “where is it to be?”

“Suppose we say the cross-roads, halfway between this and Merryvale? There’s very pretty ground there, and we shall be able to get our pistols and all that ready in the meantime between this and four o’clock and it will be pleasanter to have it all over before dinner.”

“Certainly, squire,” said Tom Durfy; “we’ll be there at four. Till then, good morning, squire;” and he and his man walked off.

The widow, in the meantime, had been left to the care of theapothecary’s boy, whose tender mercies were now, for the first time in his life, demanded towards a fainting lady; for the poor raw country lad, having to do with a sturdy peasantry in every-day matters, had never before seen the capers cut by a lady who thinks it proper, and delicate, and becoming, to display her sensibility in a swoon; and truly her sobs, and small screeches, and little stampings and kickings, amazed young gallipot. Smelling salts were applied; they were rather weak, so the widow inhaled the pleasing odour with a sigh, but did not recover. Sal volatile was next put into requisition; this was something stronger, and made her wriggle on her chair, and throw her head about with sundry “Ohs!” and “Ahs!” The boy, beginning to be alarmed at the extent of the widow’s syncope, bethought himself of assafoetida; and, taking down a goodly bottle of that sweet-smelling stimulant, gave the widow the benefit of the whole jar under her nose. Scarcely had the stopper been withdrawn, when she gave a louder screech than she had yet executed, and exclaiming “Faugh!” with an expression of the most concentrated disgust, opened her eyes fiercely upon the offender, and shut up her nose between her forefinger and thumb against the offence, and snuffled forth at the astonished boy, “Get out o’ that, you dirty cur! Can’t you let a lady faint in peace and quietness? Gracious Heavens! would you smother me, you nasty brute? Oh, Tom, where are you?” and she took to sobbing forth “Tom! Tom!” and put her handkerchief to her eyes, to hide the tears that were not there, while from behind the corner of the cambric she kept a sharp eye on the street, and observed what was going on. She went on acting her part very becomingly, until the moment Tom Durfy walked off with Murphy; but then she could feign no longer, and jumping up from her seat, with an exclamation of “The brute!” she ran to the door, and looked down the street after them. “The savage!” sobbed the widow; “the hardhearted monster! to abandon me here to die oh! to use me so to leave me like a like a” (the widow was fond of similes) “like an old shoe like a dirty glove like a like I don’t know what!” (the usual fate of similes). “Mister Durfy, I’ll punish you for this I will!” said the widow, with an energetic emphasis on the last word; and she marched out of the shop, boiling over with indignation, through which nevertheless, a little bubble of love now and then rose to the surface; and by the time she reached her own door, love predominated, and she sighed as she laid her hand on the knocker: “After all, if the dear fellow should be killed, what would become of me! oh! and that wretch, Dick Dawson, too two of them. The worst of these merry devils is they are always fighting.”

The squire had ridden immediately homewards, and told Dick Dawson the piece of work that was before them.

“And so he will have a shot at you, instead of an action?” said Dick. “Well there’s pluck in that: I wish he was more of a gentleman, for your sake. It’s dirty work, shooting attorneys.”

“He’s enough of a gentleman, Dick, to make it impossible for me to refuse him.”

“Certainly, Ned,” said Dick.

“Do you know, is he anything of a shot?”

“Faith, he makes very pretty snipe shooting; but I don’t know if he has experience of the grass before breakfast.”

“You must try and find out from some one on the ground; because, if the poor divil isn’t a good shot, I wouldn’t like to kill him, and I’ll let him off easy I’ll give it to him in the pistol-arm, or so.”

“Very well, Ned. Where are the flutes? I must look over them.”

“Here,” said the squire, producing a very handsome mahogany case of Rigby’s best. Dick opened the case with the utmost care, and took up one of the pistols tenderly, handling it as delicately as if it were a young child or a lady’s hand. He clicked the lock back and forward a few times; and, his ear not being satisfied at the music it produced, he said he should like to examine them: “At all events they want a touch of oil.”

“Well, keep them out of the misthriss’ sight, Dick, for she might be alarmed.”

“Divil a taste,” says Dick; “she’s a Dawson, and there never was a Dawson yet that did not know men must be men.”

“That’s true, Dick. I would not mind so much if she wasn’t in a delicate situation just now, when it couldn’t be expected of the woman to be so stout; so go, like a good fellow, into your own room, and Andy will bring you anything you want.”

Five minutes after, Dick was engaged in cleaning the duelling pistols, and Andy at his elbow, with his mouth wide open, wondering at the interior of the locks which Dick had just taken off.

“Oh, my heavens! but that’s a quare thing, Misther Dick, sir,” said Andy, going to take it up.

“Keep your fingers off it, you thief, do!” roared Dick, making a rap of the turnscrew at Andy’s knuckles.

“Shure, I’ll save you the trouble o’ rubbin’ that, Misther Dick, if you let me; here’s the shabby leather.”

“I wouldn’t let your clumsy fist near it, Andy, nor your shabby leather, you villain, for the world. Go get me some oil.”

Andy went on his errand, and returned with a can of lamp-oil to Dick, who swore at him for his stupidity; “The divil fly away with you! you never do anything right; you bring me lamp-oil for a pistol.”

“Well, sure I thought lamp-oil was the right thing for burnin’.”

“And who wants to burn it, you savage?”

“Aren’t you going to fire it, sir?”

“Choke you, you vagabond,” said Dick, who could not resist laughing, nevertheless; “be off, and get me some sweet oil; but don’t tell any one what it’s for.”

Andy retired, and Dick pursued his polishing of the locks. Why he used such a blundering fellow as Andy for a messenger might be wondered at, only that Dick was fond of fun, and Andy’s mistakes were a particular source of amusement to him, and on all occasions when he could have Andy in his company he made him his attendant. When the sweet oil was produced, Dick looked about for a feather; but, not finding one, desired Andy to fetch him a pen. Andy went on his errand, and returned, after some delay, with an ink bottle.

“I brought you the ink, sir; but I can’t find a pin.”

“Confound your numskull! I didn’t say a word about ink I asked for a pen.”

“And what use would a pin be without ink, now I ax yourself, Misther Dick?”

“I’d knock your brains out if you had any, you omadhaun! Go along, and get me a feather, and make haste.”

Andy went off, and having obtained a feather, returned to Dick, who began to tip certain portions of the lock very delicately with oil.

“What’s that for, Misther Dick, sir, if you plaze?”

“To make it work smooth.”

“And what’s that thing you’re grazin’ now, sir?”

“That’s the tumbler.”

“O Lord! a tumbler what a quare name for it. I thought there was no tumbler but a tumbler for punch.”

“That’s the tumbler you would like to be cleaning the inside of, Andy.”

“Thrue for you, sir. And what’s that little thing you have your hand on now, sir?”

“That’s the cock.”

“Oh, dear, a cock! Is there e’er a hin in it, sir?”

“No, nor a chicken either, though there is a feather.”

“The one in your hand, sir, that you’re grazin’ it with?”

“No: but this little thing that is called the feather-spring.”

“It’s the feather, I suppose, makes it let fly.”

“No doubt of it, Andy.”

“Well, there’s some sinse in that name, then; but who’d think of sich a thing as a tumbler and a cock in a pistle? And what’s that place that open and shuts, sir?”

“The pan.”

“Well, there’s sinse in that name too, bekase there’s fire in the thing; and it’s as nath’ral to say pan to that as to a fryin’-pan isn’t it, Misther Dick?”

“Oh! there was a great gunmaker lost in you, Andy,” said Dick, as he screwed on the locks, which he had regulated to his mind, and began to examine the various departments of the pistol-case, to see that it was properly provided. He took the instrument to cut some circles of thin leather, and Andy again asked him for the name o’ that thing?

“This is called the punch, Andy.”

“So there is the punch as well as the tumbler, sir.”

“Ay, and very strong punch it is, you see, Andy;” and Dick, struck it with his little mahogany mallet, and cut his patches of leather.

“And what’s that for, sir? the leather I mane.”

“That’s for putting round the ball.”

“Is it for fear ’t would hurt him too much when you shot him.”

“You’re a queer customer, Andy,” said Dick, smiling.

“And what weeshee little balls thim is, sir.”

“They are always small for duelling-pistols.”

“Oh, then thim is jewellin’ pistles. Why, musha, Misther Dick, is it goin’ to fight a jule you are?” said Andy, looking at him with earnestness.

“No, Andy, but the master is; but don’t say a word about it.”

“Not a word for the world. The masther’s goin’ to fight! God send him safe out iv it! amin. And who is he going to fight, Misther Dick?”

“Murphy, the attorney, Andy.”

“Oh, won’t the masther disgrace himself by fightin’ the ’torney?”

“How dare you say such a thing of your master?”

“I ax your pard’n, Misther Dick: but sure you know what I mane. I hope he’ll shoot him.”

“Why, Andy, Murtough was always very good to you, and now you wish him to be shot.”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I rather have him kilt more than the masther?”

“But neither may be killed.”

“Misther Dick,” said Andy, lowering his voice, “wouldn’t it be an iligant thing to put two balls into the pistle instead o’ one, and give the masther a chance over the ’torney?”

“Oh, you murdherous villain!”

“Arrah! why shouldn’t the masther have a chance over him! sure he has childre, and ’Torney Murphy has none.”

“At any rate, Andy, I suppose you’d give the masther a ball additional for every child he has, and that would make eight. So you might as well give him a blunderbuss and slugs at once.”

Dick loaded the pistol-case, having made all right, and desired Andy to mount a horse, carry it by a back road out of the demesne, and wait at a certain gate he named until he should be joined there by himself and the squire, who proceeded at the appointed time to the ground.

Andy was all ready, and followed his master and Dick with great pride, bearing the pistol-case after them to the ground, where Murphy and Tom Durfy were ready to receive them; and a great number of spectators were assembled, for the noise of the business had gone abroad, and the ground was in consequence crowded.

Tom Durfy had warned Murtough Murphy, who had no experience as a pistol man, that the squire was a capital shot, and that his only chance was to fire as quickly as he could. “Slap at him, Morty, my boy, the minute you get the word; and if you don’t hit him itself, it will prevent his dwelling on his aim.”

Tom Durfy and Dick the Devil soon settled the preliminaries of the ground and mode of firing, and twelve paces having been marked, both the seconds opened their pistol-cases and prepared to load. Andy was close to Dick all the time, kneeling beside the pistol-case, which lay on the sod; and as Dick turned round to settle some other point on which Tom Durfy questioned him, Andy thought he might snatch the opportunity of giving his master “the chance” he suggested to his second. “Sure, if Misther Dick wouldn’t like to do it, that’s no raison I wouldn’t,” said Andy to himself, “and, by the powers! I’ll pop in a ball onknownst to him.” And, sure enough, Andy contrived, while the seconds were engaged with each other, to put a ball into each pistol before the barrel was loaded with powder, so that when Dick took up his pistols to load, a bullet lay between the powder and the touch-hole. Now, this must have been discovered by Dick, had he been cool: but he and Tom Durfy had wrangled very much about the point they had been discussing, and Dick, at no time the quietest person in the world, was in such a rage that the pistols were loaded by him without noticing Andy’s ingenious interference, and he handed a harmless weapon to his brother-in-law when he placed him on his ground.

The word was given. Murtough, following his friend’s advice, fired instantly bang he went, while the squire returned but a flash in the pan. He turned a look of reproach upon Dick, who took the pistol silently from him, and handed him the other, having carefully looked to the priming after the accident which happened to the first.

Durfy handed his man another pistol also; and before he left his side, said in a whisper, “Don’t forget have the first fire.”

Again the word was given. Murphy blazed away a rapid and harmless shot; for his hurry was the squire’s safety, while Andy’s murderous intentions were his salvation.

“D n the pistol!” said the squire, throwing it down in a rage. Dick took it up with manifest indignation, and d d the powder.

“Your powder’s damp, Ned.”

“No, it’s not,” said the squire, “it’s you who have bungled the loading.”

“Me!” said Dick, with a look of mingled rage and astonishment. “I bungle the loading of pistols! I, that have stepped more ground and arranged more affairs than any man in the country! Arrah, be aisy, Ned!”

Tom Durfy now interfered, and said for the present it was no matter, as, on the part of his friend, he begged to express himself satisfied.

“But it’s very hard we’re not to have a shot,” said Dick, poking the touch-hole of the pistol with a pricker, which he had just taken from the case which Andy was holding before him.

“Why, my dear Dick,” said Durfy, “as Murphy has had two shots, and the squire has not had the return of either, he declares he will not fire at him again; and, under these circumstances, I must take my man off the ground.”

“Very well,” said Dick, still poking the touch-hole, and examining the point of the pricker as he withdrew it.

“And now Murphy wants to know, since the affair is all over and his honour satisfied, what was your brother-in-law’s motive in assaulting him this morning, for he himself cannot conceive a cause for it.”

“Oh, be aisy, Tom.”

“’Pon my soul it’s true!”

“Why, he sent him a blister a regular apothecary’s blister instead of some law process, by way of a joke, and Ned wouldn’t stand it.”

Durfy held a moment’s conversation with Murphy, who now advanced to the squire, and begged to assure him there must be some mistake in the business, for that he had never committed the impertinence of which he was accused.

“All I know is,” said the squire, “that I got a blister, which my messenger said you gave him.”

“By virtue of my oath, squire, I never did it! I gave Andy an enclosure of the law process.”

“Then it’s some mistake that vagabond has made,” said the squire. “Come here, you sir!” he shouted to Andy. Now Andy at this moment stood trembling under the angry eye of Dick the Devil, who, having detected a bit of lead on the point of the pricker, guessed in a moment Andy had been at work, and the unfortunate rascal, from the furious look of Dick, had a misgiving that he had made some blunder. “Why don’t you come here when I call you?” said the squire. Andy laid down the pistol-case, and sneaked up to the squire. “What did you do with the letter Mr. Murphy gave you for me yesterday?”

“I brought it to your honour.”

“No, you didn’t,” said Murphy. “You’ve made some mistake.”

“Divil a mistake I made,” answered Andy, very stoutly. “I wint home the minit you gev it to me.”

“Did you go home direct from my house to the squire’s?”

“Yis, sir, I did I went direct home, and called at Mr. M’Garry’s by the way for some physic for the childre.”

“That’s it!” said Murtough; “he changed my enclosure for a blister there; and if M’Garry has only had the luck to send the bit o’ parchment to O’Grady, it will be the best joke I’ve heard this month of Sundays.”

“He did! he did!” shouted Tom Durfy; “for don’t you remember how O’Grady was after M’Garry this morning?”

“Sure enough,” said Murtough, enjoying the double mistake. “By dad! Andy, you’ve made a mistake this time that I’ll forgive you.”

“By the powers o’ war!” roared Dick the Devil; “I won’t forgive him what he did now, though. What do you think?” said he, holding out the pistols, and growing crimson with rage, “may I never fire another shot, if he hasn’t crammed a brace of bullets down the pistols before I loaded them; so no wonder you burned prime, Ned.”

There was a universal laugh at Dick’s expense, whose pride in being considered the most accomplished regulator of the duello was well known.

“Oh, Dick, Dick! you’re a pretty second!” was shouted by all.

Dick, stung by the laughter, and feeling keenly the ridiculous position in which he was placed, made a rush at Andy, who, seeing the storm brewing, gradually sneaked away from the group, and when he perceived the sudden movement of Dick the Devil, took to his heels, with Dick after him.

“Hurra!” cried Murphy, “a race a race! I’ll bet on Andy five pounds on Andy.”

“Done!” said the squire: “I’ll back Dick the Divil.”

“Tare an’ ouns!” roared Murphy, “how Andy runs! Fear’s a fine spur.”

“So is rage,” said the squire. “Dick’s hot-foot after him. Will you double the bet?”

“Done!” said Murphy.

The infection of betting caught the bystanders, and various gages were thrown and taken up upon the speed of the runners, who were getting rapidly into the distance, flying over hedge and ditch with surprising velocity, and, from the level nature of the ground, an extensive view could not be obtained, therefore Tom Durfy, the steeple-chaser, cried, “Mount, mount! or we’ll lose the fun into our saddles, and after them.”

Those who had steeds took the hint, and a numerous field of horsemen joined in the pursuit of Handy Andy and Dick the Devil, who still maintained great speed. The horsemen made for a neighbouring hill, whence they could command a wider view; and the betting went on briskly, varying according to the vicissitudes of the race.

“Two to one on Dick he’s closing.”

“Done! Andy will wind him yet.”

“Well done there’s a leap! Hurra! Dick’s down! Well done, Dick! up again and going.”

“Mind the next quickset hedge that’s a rasper, it’s a wide gripe, and the hedge is as thick as a wall Andy’ll stick in it mind him well leaped, by the powers! Ha! he’s sticking in the hedge Dick’ll catch him now. No, by jingo! he’s pushed his way through there, he’s going again on the other side. Ha! ha! ha! ha! look at him he’s in tatters! he has left half of his breeches in the hedge!”

“Dick is over now. Hurra! he has lost the skirt of his coat! Andy is gaining on him two to one on Andy.”

“Down he goes!” was shouted as Andy’s foot slipped in making a dash at another ditch, into which he went head over heels, and Dick followed fast, and disappeared after him.

“Ride! ride!” shouted Tom Durfy; and the horsemen put their spurs into the flanks of their steeds, and were soon up to the scene of action. There was Andy, rolling over and over in the muddy bottom of a ditch, floundering in rank weeds and duck’s meat, with Dick fastened on him, pummelling away most unmercifully, but not able to kill him altogether, for want of breath.

The horsemen, in a universal screech of laughter, dismounted, and disengaged the unfortunate Andy from the fangs of Dick the Devil, who was dragged out of the ditch much more like a scavenger than a gentleman.

The moment Andy got loose, away he ran again, with a rattling “Tally-ho!” after him, and he never cried stop till he earthed himself under his mother’s bed in the parent cabin.

Murtough Murphy characteristically remarked, that the affair of the day had taken a very whimsical turn; “Here are you and I, squire, who went out to shoot each other, safe and well, while one of the seconds has come off rather worse for the wear; and a poor devil, who had nothing to say to the matter in hand, good, bad, or indifferent, is nearly killed.”

The squire and Murtough then shook hands, and parted friends half an hour after they had met as foes; and even Dick contrived to forget his annoyance in an extra stoup of claret that day after dinner filling more than one bumper in drinking confusion to Handy Andy, which seemed a rather unnecessary malediction.