The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog. The sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He started as they passed the angle of the trench--it looked like a colossal grave. The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it; one was a little, fat man, with black hair; and the other--a portly personage in a braided surtout--was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool. ‘The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,’ said Mr. Snodgrass; ‘take a drop of brandy.’ Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered, and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid. ‘My friend, Sir, Mr. Snodgrass,’ said Mr. Winkle, as the officer approached. Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr. Snodgrass carried. ‘We have nothing further to say, Sir, I think,’ he coldly remarked, as he opened the case; ‘an apology has been resolutely declined.’ ‘Nothing, Sir,’ said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable himself. ‘Will you step forward?’ said the officer. ‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and preliminaries arranged. ‘You will find these better than your own,’ said the opposite second, producing his pistols. ‘You saw me load them. Do you object to use them?’ ‘Certainly not,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from considerable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather vague and undefined. ‘We may place our men, then, I think,’ observed the officer, with as much indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players. ‘I think we may,’ replied Mr. Snodgrass; who would have assented to any proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle. ‘It’s all ready,’ said he, offering the pistol. ‘Give me your cloak.’ ‘You have got the packet, my dear fellow,’ said poor Winkle. ‘All right,’ said Mr. Snodgrass. ‘Be steady, and wing him.’ It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, ‘Go in, and win’--an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off his cloak, however, in silence--it always took a long time to undo that cloak--and accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did the same, and the belligerents approached each other.