, and presenting altogether a very choice specimen of
the thorough and complete blackguard. Somehow or other he contrives to
have cash at command, and, instead of being pigeoned, has now taken to
pigeoning others; and, to give the devil his due, I fancy he does a very
pretty stroke of business in that line. He is a good deal improved in
manner and appearance since you remember him; and among people who don't
know him very intimately, he affects the man about town: in short, he is
quite at the top of his profession. Wilford became acquainted with him
at one of the Newmarket meetings, lost money to him, and borrowed money
of him, giving him as security a contingent charge upon the estate of
double the amount--ergo, don't you see, if Wilford should by any chance
get his quietus from Harry's pistol, he won't live to come into his
property, in which case Master Dicky Cumberland is minus some thousands.
Now, if I contrive to give him a hint, depend upon it he stops the duel.
I will caution him not to let my name appear--he will not hear yours; so
in this way I think we may manage the affair, and defy the old gentleman
himself, though he's a very cunning lawyer, to trace it to us."

"Well," said I, "as I see no other means of saving Oaklands' life--for
this Wilford is a noted duellist, and no doubt thirsts to wash out the
insult he has received in blood--I suppose we must do it; but it is an
underhand proceeding which I do not at all like."

"There you go with your chivalric, high-flown, romantic ~208~~notions,
you would stand coolly by, and see the best friend you have in the world
butchered before your eyes, rather than avail yourself of a splendid
chance of saving him, which Fortune has thrown in your way, because,
forsooth, it involves a little innocent manoeuvring!--for heaven's sake,
my dear boy, get off your stilts, and give common sense fair play."

"I can only repeat what I have just said," replied I; "I will do it,
because I believe it is the only thing to save Harry; but I do not like
it, and never shall."

"I cry you mercy, Signor Francisco dc Fairlegh, the veritable Don
Quixote of the nineteenth century," laughed Freddy; "and now, most
chivalrous sir, where do you imagine it probable that this evil
_faiteur_, this man of powder and pistols, hangs out?"

"He is most likely at the inn at Carsley, a village on the London road,
about four miles from us," replied I; "I don't know of any other place
in the neighbour