"'But then, talking of gentlemen, I own he is an officer of the 48th, but his father is a fish-tackle seller in John Street, Kilkenny, who keeps a three-halfpenny shop, where you may buy everything, from a cheese to a cheese-toaster, from a felt hat to a pair of brogues, from a pound of brown soap to a yard of huckaback towels. He got his commission by his father's retiring from the Ormonde interest, and acting as whipper-in to the sham freeholders from Castlecomer; and I am, as you know, of the best blood of the Burkes--straight from the De Burgos themselves--and when I think of that, I really do not like to meet this Mr Brady.' "'Do not fight him, by any means,' said Wooden-leg Waddy." "This advice of your friend Waddy to you," said Tom Meggot, interrupting Burke, "much resembles that which Pantagruel gave Panurge on the subject of his marriage, as I heard a friend of mine, Percy, of Gray's Inn, reading to me the other day." "I do not know the people you speak of," continued Bob, "but such was the advice which Waddy gave me. "'Why,' said I, 'Wooden-leg, my friend, this is like playing battledore and shuttlecock; what is knocked forward with one hand is knocked back with the other. Come, tell me what I ought to do.' "'Well,' said Wooden-leg, taking the meerschaum out of his mouth, '_in dubiis suspice_, &c. Let us decide it by tossing a halfpenny. If it comes down _head_, you fight--if _harp_, you do not. Nothing can be fairer.' "I assented. "'Which,' said he, 'is it to be--two out of three, as at Newmarket, or the first toss to decide?' "'Sudden death,' said I, 'and there will soon be an end of it.' "Up went the halfpenny, and we looked with anxious eyes for its descent, when, unluckily, it stuck in a gooseberry-bush. "'I don't like that,' said Wooden-leg Waddy; 'for it's a token of bad luck. But here goes again.' "Again the copper soared to the sky, and down it came--_head_. "'I wish you joy, my friend,' said Waddy; 'you are to fight. That was my opinion all along; though I did not like to commit myself. I can lend you a pair of the most beautiful duelling-pistols ever put into a man's hand--Wogden's, I swear. The last time they were out, they shot Joe Brown of Mount Badger as dead as Harry the Eighth.' "'Will you be my second?' said I. "'Why, no,' replied Wooden-leg, 'I cannot; for I am bound over by a rascally magistrate to keep the peace, because I barely broke the head of a blackguard bailiff, who came here to serve a writ on a friend of mine, with one of my spare legs. But I can get you a second at once. My nephew, Major Mug, has just come to me on a few days' visit, and, as he is quite idle, it will give him some amusement to be your second. Look up at his bedroom--you see he is shaving himself.'