Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/30

2, 1859.] I hit him  there,  and  he  felt  it.

“That’s my  ultimatum,”  he  rejoined,  and  he began  cutting  his  pencil  ferociously.

“Larpent,” said  I,  after  two  or  three  painful endeavours to  articulate,  “you  are  carrying  the joke a little  too  far — you  are,  upon  my  honour.”

“You think  so,  do  you?”  he  returned,  throwing away  his  pencil. “Well, to  convince  you  that I am perfectly  serious,  you  see  this,”  and  he  drew from his  breast-pocket  a small  blue-barrelled pistol inlaid  with  silver.

“If you  don’t  give  up  your  ridiculous  pretensions quietly,  my  friend,”  was  his  remark, “you must  take  your  chance  of  a bullet-hole, that’s all. I don’t want  anything  unreasonable, but if  you  insist  on  crossing  my  path  in  this  little affair, down  you  go—pop!”

“Not if  we  fire  at  one  another  with— cross-bows,” said  I,  maliciously,  for  only  two  days before we  had  a shooting-match  at  a blacking-bottle,  and  Larpent  was  beaten  hollow. “However, I don’t want  to  take  an  unfair  advantage— choose  your  own  weapon  — I’m  ready  and willing.”

The West  Indian  put  his  pistol  back  in  his pocket,  and  took  my  hand.

“Bonser,” he  said,  with  affected  kindness,  “I  have  a respect  for  you  and  consideration  for  your - mother, but  really  you  mustn’t  stand  in  my light.”

“Stand in  your  light!”  I exclaimed,  fiercely. “You are  standing  in  mine. Who spoke  to Amelia  first? I’ve known  her  since  I was  a child — almost.”

Larpent burst  out  laughing.

“Why, Bonser,  what  are  you  now?”  Then, without waiting  for  my  reply,  he  said:

“Give me  this  acrostic,  promise  not  to  write any more,  and  I’ll  present  you  with  a dozen splendid cigars.”

“Hang your  cigars!”  I cried. “Disgusting Cabanas! — they would  make  me  sick.”

“ Very well,  then  you  mean  to  fight?”

“I do.”

“If you  should  prefer  horse-pistols,”  said Larpent, pulling  on  his  lemon-coloured  gloves, “I have  got  a brace  in  my  trunk  up-stairs  ready loaded.”

A sudden rush  of  pupils  into  the  school-room, singing in  chorus  “Ride  Britannia,”  prevented my sanguinary  rival  from  proceeding  further  with his warlike  demonstrations. Intelligence had  just arrived of  the  battle  of  Navarino; and  Wapshaw, who loved  his  country,  and  used  to  expatiate  in  our rural walks  upon  England’s  naval  supremacy,  had, in a fit  of  enthusiasm,  given  permission  to  the boys to  sing  national  airs,  for  half  an  hour  before supper. I am sure  he  forgot  that  vocal  exercises invigorate the  appetite,  or  he  would  never  have granted this  musical  licence.

All night  long  I lay  awake  with  my  eyes  fixed on the  black  leathern  trunk  with  brass  nails beneath Larpent’s  bed. Notwithstanding my  lofty tone when  confronting  my  Creole  enemy,  I had  not  made  up  my  mind  to  fight  him,  but  I resolved  to  maintain  a bold  front. Accordingly, when  Larpent  came  up  to  me  next  day  in  the cricket-ground,  and  coolly  asked  me  if  I was ready  to  die  for  Amelia,  I answered  sullenly, “ I am,” and  followed  him  at  his  command  with long and  rapid  strides. We had  nearly  reached the coppice  at  the  extremity  of  the  ground,  where Larpent proposed  the  duel  should  take  place, when a tennis  ball  came  ricocheting  behind  us, and struck  me  in  my  spine. On turning  round I perceived a knot  of  boys  gathered  round McPhun, the  old  Scotch  gardener  of  College House, and  who  hailed  us  to  come  back  with  gesticulations of  such  earnestness  as  indicated  that something alarming  had  happened.

I was very  glad  to  obey  this  peremptory  sum- mons, and on  my  way  met  Blobbins,  with  tears streaming from  his  little  eyes.

“Have you  heard  about  poor  old  Crump?” he said,  wiping  his  cheeks  with  a tattered  pocket- handkerchief.

“No,” said  I “Has  he  been  knocked  down again by  a painter’s  ladder?”

“Worse,” replied  Blobbins,  sucking  an  orange to calm  his  emotion: “he  has  fell  beneath  a load of bricks.”

“What, crushed! ” I exclaimed.

“Reg’larly,” said  Blobbins,  weeping  afresh,  and adding, with  inconceivable  tenderness,  “We  shall never, Bonser,  taste  such  buns  again.”

I turned away  from  this  heartless  voluptuary with feelings  of  mingled  pity  and  disdain,  and joined the  noisy  crowd  which  encircled  McPhun, the old  Scotch  gardener,  and  eagerly  questioned him about  poor  Crump’s  catastrophe. From his narrative it  seemed  that  Crump,  having  scraped together a little  money  in  the  Original  Bun House, had  unwisely  invested  it  in  land  for  building purposes,  and,  like  many  other  sanguine speculators, had  overbuilt  himself. This Blobbins figuratively described  as  being  crushed  beneath  a load  of  bricks. To accelerate  his  downfall  he  had become surety  for  a particular  friend  of  the  family, whose health  was  so  infirm  that  he  could  not leave Boulogne  when  his  promissory  note  became due. The consequence  was,  that  execution  had been issued  against  Crump,  who  was  seized  by  the sheriff, while  another  hostile  force,  with  that officer’s authority,  marched  into  the  Original  Bun House, and  garrisoned  it  by  command  of  Crump’s principal creditor,  a hot- headed  brick-maker.

This was  sad  news  indeed.

“And what’s  become  of  poor  little  Mely, Mac? ” demanded College  House,  with  its  forty- five voices  harmoniously  rolled  into  one.

“I hear,”  replied  McPhun,  “that she  has  taken a situation as  barmaid  at  the  'Marquis  o'  Granby.'”

College House  fell  back  as  if  its  forty-five  pillars had been  shaken  by  an  earthquake. Amelia, so graceful,  innocent,  and  fair,  to  let  herself  down behind the  bar  of  an  ordinary  commercial  inn! Such degradation  was  enough  to  cause  a sympathetic sinking  in  every  manly  breast.

Blobbins whispered  to  me  in  my  extremity  what he deemed  words  of  consolation:

“Couldn’t we  go  to  the  'Marquis’ together, Bonser, and  have  a pint  of  early  purl?”

I looked at  him  distrustfully,  and  felt  confident by  his  retreating  manner  that  he  was  profoundly ignorant  of  the  nature  of  that  matutinal beverage. He confessed  afterwards  that  he  fancied