"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."