Headed by Mr. Fuzz, the cavalcade started off in gallant style, followed by the prayers and anxious entreaties of the gentler sex to prevent if possible the “effusion of blood.” Miss Celestina Scragg, the poetess of the village, and the author of the celebrated ode to that beautiful stream, the Squamkeog, came very near being thrown under the hoofs of the squire’s horse, as she appealed to Mr. Fuzz, and besought him to rescue Albert, as she tenderly designated Mr. Fobb, or “perish in the attempt.” After riding hard for about an hour, the committee approached the Bungville house, where they determined to make their first inquiries as to the fate of the editors and their seconds. Mr. Buzz, the landlord, was a brisk, officious little man, who always knew before you spoke what you were going to say, and rarely listened to more than the two first words of any question you might put to him. He was, moreover, a little deaf, so that the habit of anticipation was, perhaps, as much a matter of necessity as of choice. “Have we arrived too late?” asked Fuzz. “Oh, by more than an hour. It is all over,” replied Buzz, who supposed that the inquiry had reference to the dinner hour. “It is all over, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, in a magisterial tone, turning to his awe-stricken companions. “Has any one been killed or wounded?” continued he, addressing the landlord. “Killed, indeed? I guess you would think so,” exclaimed Buzz. “They have shot one fine, plump fellow.” “It is probably Snobb. He is the plump one,” said Fuzz, contracting his lips, and looking sternly round at the members of the committee. “Did he fall dead on the spot?” he rejoined. “Dead as Julius Cæsar—I may say very dead,” replied Buzz. “Serious business this, gentlemen,” said Fuzz, dilating with importance. Here Mr. Rattle, the tinman, was seen to mount his horse and gallop off in the direction of Tattletown. He was determined to be the first to communicate the news of the catastrophe. “There will be no need of your services, Mr. Blister,” said Fuzz, bestowing a patronizing glance upon the apothecary. “Have the seconds escaped, Mr. Buzz?” “Yes, the second one escaped, but with a bullet in his neck. They tracked him a mile or two by his blood.” “Dreadful!” muttered Mr. Blister. “So Fobb is wounded! I will just ride back and inform Miss Scragg of the fact. She will go into hysterics, and I shall get a job.” And so saying, the apothecary mounted his horse, and followed in Rattle’s track. “What have you done with the killed, Mr. Buzz?” “Oh, we have skinned him, and hung him up to dry, to be sure. One of the gents _would_ have a slice of him for dinner, but he found it rather tough eating I suspect; not quite equal to the ducks.” “What!” exclaimed Fuzz, turning pale and starting back with horror. “Are they cannibals?” “Yes, to be sure,” responded Buzz, who did not fully comprehend the question.