"Shute me famoushly!" replied Mr. Smirke; meaning to say, that it would suit him.
But Mr. Bulpit heard the word, and understood it as it was pronounced. "Who 'll shoot you?" he said. "Not I, if I know it. You 're not worth powder and shot."
"Come, Bulpit," said Effingham; "you must n't back out of it."
"I shed shute me!" exclaimed Mr. Smirke, vainly striving at great deliberation of expression. "You shay that I shay shoot me. Never shed such a wor'! pononner! quia mishtake. I shed, shute me."
Little Mr. Bouncer and Mr. Effingham had taken the opportunity to interchange a few quiet words in the midst of the din and confusion. "It is quite evident, gentlemen," said the latter, "that there must be a duel. Nothing less will evidently satisfy Bulpit for his wounded honour, to say nothing of his wounded nose. Look at his poor dear nose, gentlemen, whereon still linger the greasy traces of cold duck; and then say what other reparation than an affair of honour can suffice to wipe out that gravied stain? Of course, Bulpit, you 'll fight! There 's no other course left open to you."
"Oh, yes, of course," reluctantly responded Mr. Bulpit, who failed to perceive that the whole affair was a jest, and that he and Mr. Smirke were to be made the victims of a hoax, and thus punished for their ungentlemanly conduct at the Little-go Wine; "of course I 'll fight, if it 's thought necessary."
"Nesheshary? courshe it is!" said Mr. Smirke. "You shulted me, and hurt my feelings! courshe it 's nesheshary."
