injured . . . " Here he fell a-blubbering! Oh, Belford, the
virtue of this world is a great discourager of repentance.

"If Mr. Jones insists on the arbitrament of the sword . . . " I was
beginning--"Nay, none of thy Frenchified blades," cries he, "come
out of thy earth, thou stinking fox, and try conclusions with an
English cudgel!"

Belford, I am no cudgel-player, and I knew not well how to rid
myself of this swasher.

"Mr. Jones!" I said, "I will fight you how you will, where you
will, with what weapon you will; but first inform me of the nature
of our quarrel. Would you blazon abroad yet further the malignant
tales that have injured both me and a lady for whom I have none but
the most hallowed esteem? I pray you sit down, Sir; be calm, the
light is ill for any play with cudgel or sword. De la Tour, a
bottle of right Burgundy; Mr. Jones and I have business, and he
hath travelled far."

In a trice there was a chicken, a bottle, a set of knives and
forks, a white cloth, and a hungry oaf that did eat and swear! One
bottle followed another. By the third Mr. Jones embraced me,
saying that never had a man been more belied than I; that it was
Lord Fellamar, not I, was the villain. To this effect I own that I
did myself drop a hint; conceiving that the divine Sophia must
often have regretted our friend Fellamar when once she was bound to
the oaf, and that Jones was capable of a resentful jealousy. By
midnight I had to call a chair for my besotted challenger, and when
the Avenger was there safely bestowed, I asked him where the men