"Oh, I beg your pardon," said he mockingly,
" aren't you a cashier in a fur-shop?"

Shop! Fur-shop! I could have seen him—
seen him—moth eaten.

"I'll tell you what I'm not, sir," I burst out,
losing self-control, " I am not the man to put
up with the con—foun—ded impudence of an
obscure tide-waiter."

"Tide-waiter!" repeated the beast, starting
to his feet.

"Tide-waiter," I calmly reiterated.

At this, the whole family of the Nuttleburys,
who had hitherto appeared to be paralysed,
interposed, one screeching out one thing, another
yelling another. But they were all—Mary and
all—against me, and affirmed that I had
purposely picked a quarrel with their relation—
which, by-the-by, I rather think I had. The
unpleasantness ended in Mr. Nuttlebury's
requesting me, in so many words, to withdraw.

"After what has occurred there is nothing
left for me, but to do so," I remarked, making
towards the door with much majesty; " but if
Mr. Huffell thinks he has heard the last of this,
he is a good deal mistaken. As for you, Mary,"
I continued;—but before I could complete my
sentence I experienced a sensation of an elderly
hand in my coat-collar, and found myself in the
passage, with the room door closed against me.
I lost no time in vacating this ignominious position,
and seeking the open air. Presently I
found myself at my desk writing to Dewsnap.

Dewsnap was then my greatest friend. He
was, like me, in the fur business, and was a fine
honourable upright noble fellow, as bold as
brass, and always especially sensitive about
the point of honour. To this friend I wrote
a long account of all that had happened; asking
his advice. I mentioned at the end of my
letter that I was only restrained by the want
of a pair of pistols, from inviting this wretched
being to a hostile meeting.

The next day I passed in retirement,
speculating much on what Dewsnap's answer would
be. It was a day of heavy rain, and I had
plenty of time to mourn over my exclusion from
the cheerful abode of the Nuttleburys, and to
reflect how much better off my rival was (sunning
himself in my adored one's smiles) than I, a
lonely exile, flattening my nose against the
window of a country inn, and watching the
drippings of the roof-drain as they splashed into
the last-filling water-butt. It is needless to say
that I retired to rest early, and that I was
unable to sleep.

I could sleep next morning, however, and
did so till a late hour. I was aroused from a
heavy slumber, by a loud knocking at my door,
and the sound of a voice which I seemed to
recognise.

"Here, Shrubsole! Hi, Oliver! Let me in.
Shrubsole, what a lazy fellow you are!"

Gracious Heaven, was it possible? Was it
the voice of Dewsnap? I rose, unlocked the
door, and jumped into bed again.

Yes, it was my friend. He entered erect,
vigorous, energetic as usual, deposited a small
carpet-bag near the door, and, retaining a
curious-looking oblong mahogany box under his
arm, advanced to greet me.

"What on earth do you do lying in bed at
this time of the day?" said Dewsnap, grasping
my hand.

"I couldn't sleep till morning came," I
answered, passing my hand athwart my brow.
"But how did you get away?"

"Oh, I've got a few days' holiday, and am
come down to answer your letter in person.
Well? How's this affair going on?"

"Do not ask me," I groaned. " It has made
me wretched. I know no more. You don't know
how fond I was of that girl."

"Well, and you shall have her yet. I'm going
to settle it all for you," said Dewsnap,
confidently.

"What do you mean to do?" I asked, with
some hesitation.

"Do? Why, there's only one thing to do!"
He rattled the queer-looking mahogany box as
though it contained metallic pills.

"What have you got in that box?" I asked.

"There's a pair of pistols in this box," said
Dewsnap, proudly, "with either one of which it
would almost be a pleasure to find yourself
winged."

"Sir?" I observed, sitting up in bed with
marked displeasure.

"You mentioned your difficulty about
weapons, so I borrowed them of a friend of mine—
a gunmaker—and brought them down with
me."

"Hang him!" I thought, "how very prompt
he has been about it. Amazingly prompt, to be
sure.—You think, then," I added, aloud, " that
there's no—no other way out of the difficulty?"

"Apology," said Dewsnap, who had now
opened the box, and was clicking away with the
lock of one of the weapons, with the muzzle
directed towards my head—"ample apology on
the part of the other side—is the only
alternative. Written apology, in fact."

"Ah," I replied, "I don't think the other
side will agree to that."

"Then," said my friend, extending his pistol,
and aiming at a portrait of the Marquis of
Granby hanging over the fireplace: " then we
must put a bullet into the exciseman."

(And suppose the exciseman puts a bullet into
me, I thought to myself. So erratic is thought!)

"Where does the exciseman live?" inquired
my friend, putting on his hat. " There is not a
moment to be lost in these cases."

"Wait till I'm dressed," I remonstrated, " and
I'll show you. Or you can go after breakfast."

"Not a bit of it. The people down stairs will
tell me where to find him. Nuttlebury's, I
think you said? I'll be there and back, by the
time you're ready for breakfast."

He was out of the room almost before he had
done speaking, and I was left to make my toilet
and improve my appetite for breakfast with the
reflection that the number of such meals in store
for me was, perhaps, more limited than I could
have wished. Perhaps I a little regretted having