SCENE I.--_A room at the Dolphin Inn. Guns, pistols, swords, and

other weapons scattered around._ WHETSTONE _in armor, lying upon a sofa, disquietly sleeping_.

_Enter_ BLUEGRASS _carrying a large dictionary_.

BLUEGRASS.

He sleeps. ’Tis well. For centuries men, with eager eyes fixed upon the horizon, have awaited the coming of the purely literary duel. The auspicious morn is about to dawn, in fact, to bloom upon this magnificent star of ours, when, in affairs of honor, bloody swords, odious gunpowder, and slaughtering bullets no longer shall disgrace the planet.

WHETSTONE [_dreaming_].

Take away the sword! Do not say I killed you!

BLUEGRASS.

He dreams of the combat. Rest, warrior, rest! Safe within this volume, and at your timely service, are such dire missiles, fearful and momentous cartridges, bombs, shells, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, mortars, and battering-rams, as have rent nations asunder and awed the world. Can base gunpowder and lead do so much? O puissant volume, armory and magazine, I will select from your mighty stores, for my principal’s sake, weapons which shall strike terror and dismay to his adversary’s heart. Yes, a full dozen of as bold bad words as were ever conned from out thy depths by a dyspeptic writer at midnight hour in editorial den.

[_A rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_still dreaming_].

See how he glares upon me!

BLUEGRASS.

Rest, warrior, rest! You go forth not to death, but to glorious immortality.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE [_starting up_].

Take him away; he is killing me! Oh, oh! [_Observing_ BLUEGRASS] Who are you?

BLUEGRASS [_cheerfully_].

Your trusty friend and second in this valiant enterprise. I’ve just returned from Fopdoodle’s second. We have arranged the place, time, weapons, and conditions of the duel very satisfactorily.

WHETSTONE.

You seem to enjoy it!

BLUEGRASS.

Listen, and you’ll enjoy it too.

WHETSTONE.

Let me know the worst.

BLUEGRASS.

Place, the little clearing in the darkened wood behind the hill.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it in the West, behind the Rocky Mountains?

BLUEGRASS.

Time, one hour before sunrise.

WHETSTONE.

Why didn’t you make it next year, in the dark of the moon? Major, I feel that my blood will be upon your so-called head.

BLUEGRASS.

Not if my head can save you, and I think it can. With some acuteness, I secured Scythe as attendant surgeon, in case of an accident, and he has already gone to the spot with all his surgical implements of healing.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

What’s that? Is’t the signal?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen! now for the weapons.

WHETSTONE.

Don’t, Major, don’t!

BLUEGRASS.

With some archness in archery, I first chose crossbows as most fitting for lovers’ duels, but abandoned them as too crosswise. Blunderbusses I rejected, as too blundering for us; and, noting the weakness of our enemy in diction, I at last chose dictionaries, big and unabridged, and made by the most celebrated word-smiths.

WHETSTONE.

Dictionaries! Did you say dictionaries? Major, now my anger is reviving. Now, by all that’s terrible, I’ll fight till there’s not a leaf or lid left. Why, the first blow I give him shall be a jaw-breaker. He’ll think himself smitten, like the Philistines, by a jawbone. Major, get me a dictionary with iron clasps; but one is not enough, my boy. I’ll strike him with two dictionaries.

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Erroneous hero! You are in honor bound not to deal him any blows with vulgar material-bound paper.

WHETSTONE.

How then, my boy, how then?

BLUEGRASS.

Listen to the conditions of the duel. At a distance of two paces, you and Fopdoodle, each aided by his respective second, will each respectively select, for each fire from his inexhaustible dictionary or armory, one animal noun for his projectile, and one adjective,--for your adjective is your gunpowder to your bullet of a noun. These two, to wit: one animal noun and one adjective, each of you will form into a cartridge, or epithet, and at the word _Fire_ each will fire it at his adversary.

WHETSTONE.

Bless you, my boy, we are saved! You shall always be editor of the Eagle. My boy, you must have known I didn’t want to kill him. Major, stand by me to the last.

BLUEGRASS.

I’ll do it. I am a connoisseur in epithets; and your animal noun with adjective conjoined is a terrible weapon. O book, how like a poet thou art!--in pleasant moods full of balmlike words, but in anger javelined like a porcupine. Be thou a cage filled to the cover’s brim with fierce animal nouns which fret their paper cage of leaves to pounce upon the enemy. Remember, at each fire call him some outrageous animal, and exploit the animal with an explosive adjective.

WHETSTONE.

I’ll do it. The gourd-headed baboon!

[_Rooster crows._

BLUEGRASS.

Good; a very fine line shot! But don’t waste your ammunition here. Wait until you get your enemy into close quarters, and meanwhile steady your nerves and tongue. Remember, no faltering of the tongue.

WHETSTONE.

How goes the night outdoors?

BLUEGRASS.

All’s well! Now shall I behold the first genuine literary duel ever fought on this magnificent star of ours, while the sun trails his sanguinary banners along the eastern sky.

[_Rooster crows._

WHETSTONE.

Why does he crow so often?

BLUEGRASS.

It is the martial bird of morn, brave chanticleer--the vocal lighthouse of the dawn. Six times has the rooster crowed. [_Rooster again crows._] And yet again he crows,--seven times, mysterious number! With crimson comb and whetted spurs, he sniffs this duel from his lofty perch in the heavenly balcony.

WHETSTONE.

How says the time?

BLUEGRASS.

It lacks but little of the hour. We’ll prove no laggards on the field of honor. Come on. Make haste! Away, away, or we’ll be late to join the fray! We’ll get our lanterns on the way. [_Rooster crows._]

[_Exeunt._