master, the gentleman who occupied the office across the hall,
here interfered, pulled Mr. Culkins off, thrust him gently
against the wall, and slightly choked him. Mr. Culkins bottled
his furious wrath for that night, but in the morning he uncorked
it and threatened the gentleman (whom for convenience sake we
will call Smith) with all sorts of vengeance. He obtained a
small horsewhip and tore furiously through the town, on the
lookout for Smith.

He sent Smith a challenge, couched in language so scathingly hot
that it burnt holes through the paper, and when it reached Smith
it was riddled like an old-fashioned milk-strainer. No notice
was taken of the challenge, and Culkins' wrath became absolutely
terrific. He wrote handbills, which he endeavoured to have
printed, posting Smith as a coward. He wrote a communication for
the "New Herald," explaining the whole matter. (This wasn't very
rich, we expect.) He urged us to publish his challenge to Smith.
Somebody told him that Smith was intending to flee the city in
fear on an afternoon train, and Culkins proceeded to the depot,
horsewhip in hand, to lie in wait for him. This was Saturday
last. During the afternoon Smith concluded to accept the
challenge. Seconds and a surgeon were selected, and we are
mortified to state that at 10 o'clock in the evening Scanton's
Bottom was desecrated with a regular duel. The frantic glee of
Culkins when he learned his challenge had been accepted can't be
described. Our pen can't do it--a pig-pen couldn't. He wrote a
long letter to his uncle in New York, and to his father in
Connaught. At about ten o'clock the party proceeded to the
field. The moon was not up, the darkness was dense, the ground
was unpleasantly moist, and the lights of the town, which gleamed