At this brief mention of the scene of the previous evening, the wretched man's clouded brain was sufficiently cleared of some of its fogs and mists to recover a partial knowledge of what had occurred. "But Bulpit began it, with a slice of tongue. And—I have n't any pistols," pleaded Mr. Bob Acres.
"Oh! we 'll manage all that. Look at yourself in the glass; you 've got your war-paint on already." And little Mr. Bouncer enjoyed Mr. Smirke's dismay when he surveyed the burnt-cork designs with which his face had been adorned. Then he made him wash his face and put on his clothes; and, during the time that he was thus getting himself dressed, frightened him by anticipations of the probable effects of the duel. At length the victim asked, "Is there no way of getting out of it?—of course, in an honourable manner." And Mr. Bouncer took pity on him by suggesting, "I fear that matters have gone too far. The only plan that I can think of, would be to write an apology to Bulpit; and, perhaps, you would n't like to do that."
"Oh, yes; I don't mind it at all," responded Mr. Smirke with alacrity. "If I shied the duck at him, as you say I did—and I confess that I don't remember very clearly about it—it would only be right in me, as a gentleman, to apologise to Bulpit; would n't it?"
"I quite agree with you. It is better to prevent bloodshed, if possible," replied little Mr. Bouncer, as he lighted a cigar, and threw his cap and gown on the floor. "But you must write the letter at once, if it is to be written at all; or Bulpit and Effingham will have started for the Port Meadow before we can stop them. You must pitch the letter very strong, and do the gentlemanly penitential in first-rate style; or it will be of no use to soothe Bulpit's savage breast."
