And Jones’ girl all this time is looking on. She had gotten herself up elaborately for the occasion; without a doubt her wardrobe had been duly dissected and priced and deplored and praised at the last “circle.” Jones’ girl’s mother is there, too, sitting just behind her. “The low, mean fellow, to make such an exhibition of himself! I would never let him go home with me again! Send back his ring, Mirandy. The idea!--to get up before all the people here and fight with corn-stalks!” The laughter before pent up, controlled, held in, kept down, now bursts the bonds. Human nature in this village of snow-paths could hold in no longer. It’s just a broad ha! ha!! ha!!! and for the girls (all except Jones’ girl) a te! he!! he!!! The old deacon joins in--it’s even too much for his gravity. In the deacon’s case the explosion was rather serious. He began with a cough and a sneeze, got red in the face--got redder--his sides shook--a blast from his nose--then the explosion, ho! ho!! ho!!! ho!!!! If the house was brought down before, it was “fetched” now--the fun was so hilarious--for those people hadn’t had a good laugh that winter. Some of the other girls, whose beaux are yet to be found, are heard to exclaim: “The absurd fellow! I wonder that she can countenance him at all!” But the duel--“Three paces. Now at the word, one--two--three,” and the whacks of the corn-stalks resound. It is a spectacle to arouse laughter from even a hypochondriac. “Time!--first round, no blood; well, seconds, look after your principals.” While the duellists are resting the professor goes on to speak his piece. He has been “a close student of human nature. It’s mental alchemy, stored away in the great human store-house. An observer like me can bring it out--a great science, ladies and gentlemen--and I shall give one more exhibition before this highly intelligent community to-morrow evening.” And well he may, for the house this evening has paid him seventy dollars at least. While this speech is going on, the professor keeps hold of one of the hands of Jones’ opponent in the duel, and manages to rub some red paint or pigment on his wrist while he is talking. “Take your places, gentlemen! All ready at the word. One--two--three,” and such a pounding of corn-stalks--pounded so effectually that they fly in fragments all over the hall. “Blood!--first blood! Honor is satisfied, gentlemen; Jones is the winner. Shake hands, gentlemen--that’s according to the Marquis of Queensberry’s rules--yes, that’s it! Seconds, take care of your principals.” And Jones’ girl is all smiles, and will evidently allow the hero to see her home to-night. More applicants for the “spell” come up as I walk over the seat-backs to the door, making my way back to mine hostelry and to bed.