The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson – Swanston Edition. Volume 20

He had turned, and now faced me full, very pale, but with no sign of shrinking.

“I am quite of your opinion,” said he. “You have tried me at the running; you can try me next at the high jump. It will be all the same. It must end the one way.”

I made my holly whistle about my head.

“I believe you know what way!” said I. “We are alone, it is night, and I am wholly resolved. Are you not frightened?”

“No,” he said, “not in the smallest. I do not box, sir; but I am not a coward, as you may have supposed. Perhaps it will simplify our relations if I tell you at the outset that I walk armed.”

Quick as lightning I made a feint at his head; as quickly he gave ground, and at the same time I saw a pistol glitter in his hand.

“No more of that, Mr. French-Prisoner!” he said. “It will do me no good to have your death at my door.”

“Faith, nor me either!” said I; and I lowered my stick and considered the man, not without a twinkle of admiration. “You see,” I said, “there is one consideration that you appear to overlook: there are a great many chances that your pistol may miss fire.”

“I have a pair,” he returned. “Never travel without a brace of barkers.”

“I make you my compliment,” said I. “You are able to take care of yourself, and that is a good trait. But, my good man! let us look at this matter dispassionately. You are not a coward, and no more am I; we are both men of excellent sense; I have good reason, whatever it may be, to keep my concerns to myself and to walk alone. Now, I put it to you pointedly, am I likely to stand it? Am I likely to put up with your continued and – excuse me – highly impudent ingérence into my private affairs?”

“Another French word,” says he composedly.

“O! damn your French words!” cried I. “You seem to be a Frenchman yourself!”

“I have had many opportunities by which I have profited,” he explained. “Few men are better acquainted with the similarities and differences, whether of idiom or accent, of the two languages.”

“You are a pompous fellow, too!” said I.

“O, I can make distinctions, sir,” says he. “I can talk with Bedfordshire peasants; and I can express myself becomingly, I hope, in the company of a gentleman of education like yourself.”

“If you set up to be a gentleman – ” I began.

“Pardon me,” he interrupted: “I make no such claim. I only see the nobility and gentry in the way of business. I am quite a plain person.”

“For the Lord’s sake,” I exclaimed, “set my mind at rest upon one point. In the name of mystery, who and what are you?”

“I have no cause to be ashamed of my name, sir,” said he, “nor yet my trade. I am Thomas Dudgeon, at your service, clerk to Mr. Daniel Romaine, solicitor of London; High Holborn is our address, sir.”

It was only by the ecstasy of the relief that I knew how horribly I had been frightened. I flung my stick on the road.

“Romaine?” I cried. “Daniel Romaine? An old hunks with a red face and a big head, and got up like a Quaker? My dear friend, to my arms!”

“Keep back, I say!” said Dudgeon weakly.

I would not listen to him. With the end of my own alarm, I felt as if I must infallibly be at the end of all dangers likewise; as if the pistol that he held in one hand were no more to be feared than the valise that he carried with the other, and now put up like a barrier against my advance.

“Keep back, or I declare I will fire,” he was crying. “Have a care, for God’s sake! My pistol – ”

He might scream as he pleased. Willy nilly, I folded him to my breast, I pressed him there, I kissed his ugly mug as it had never been kissed before and would never be kissed again; and in the doing so knocked his wig awry and his hat off. He bleated in my embrace; so bleats the sheep in the arms of the butcher. The whole thing, on looking back, appears incomparably reckless and absurd; I no better than a madman for offering to advance on Dudgeon, and he no better than a fool for not shooting me while I was about it. But all’s well that ends well; or, as the people in these days kept singing and whistling on the streets: —

“There’s a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft
And looks out for the life of poor Jack.”

“There!” said I, releasing him a little, but still keeping my hands on his shoulders, “je vous ai bel et bien embrassé– and, as you would say, there is another French word.” With his wig over one eye, he looked incredibly rueful and put out. “Cheer up, Dudgeon; the ordeal is over, you shall be embraced no more. But do, first of all, for God’s sake, put away your pistol; you handle it as if you were a cockatrice; some time or other, depend upon it, it will certainly go off. Here is your hat. No, let me put it on square, and the wig before it. Never suffer any stress of circumstances to come between you and the duty you owe to yourself. If you have nobody else to dress for, dress for God!

“Put your wig straight
On your bald pate,
Keep your chin scraped,
And your figure draped.

Can you match me that? The whole duty of man in a quatrain! And remark, I do not set up to be a professional bard; these are the outpourings of a dilettante.”

“But, my dear sir!” he exclaimed.

“But, my dear sir!” I echoed, “I will allow no man to interrupt the flow of my ideas. Give me your opinion on my quatrain, or I vow we shall have a quarrel of it.”

“Certainly you are quite an original,” he said.

“Quite,” said I; “and I believe I have my counterpart before me.”

“Well, for a choice,” says he, smiling, “and whether for sense or poetry, give me

“‘Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow:
The rest is all but leather and prunello.’”

“Oh, but that’s not fair – that’s Pope! It’s not original, Dudgeon. Understand me,” said I, wringing his breast-button, “the first duty of all poetry is to be mine, sir – mine. Inspiration now swells in my bosom, because – to tell you the plain truth, and descend a little in style – I am devilish relieved at the turn things have taken. So, I dare say, are you yourself, Dudgeon, if you would only allow it. And à propos, let me ask you a home question. Between friends, have you ever fired that pistol?”

“Why, yes, sir,” he replied. “Twice – at hedge-sparrows.”

“And you would have fired at me, you bloody-minded man?” I cried.

“If you go to that, you seemed mighty reckless with your stick,” said Dudgeon.

“Did I indeed? Well, well, ’tis all past history; ancient as King Pharamond – which is another French word, if you cared to accumulate more evidence,” says I. “But happily we are now the best of friends, and have all our interests in common.”

“You go a little too fast, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. – : I do not know your name, that I am aware,” said Dudgeon.

“No, to be sure!” said I. “Never heard of it!”

“A word of explanation – ” he began.

“No, Dudgeon!” I interrupted. “Be practical; I know what you want, and the name of it is supper. Rien ne creuse comme l’émotion. I am hungry myself, and yet I am more accustomed to warlike palpitations than you, who are but a hunter of hedge-sparrows. Let me look at your face critically: your bill of fare is three slices of cold rare roast beef, a Welsh rabbit, a pot of stout, and a glass or two of sound tawny port, old in bottle – the right milk of Englishmen.” Methought there seemed a brightening in his eye and a melting about his mouth at this enumeration.

“The night is young,” I continued; “not much past eleven, for a wager. Where can we find a good inn? And remark that I say good, for the port must be up to the occasion – not a headache in a pipe of it.”

“Really, sir,” he said, smiling a little, “you have a way of carrying things – ”

“Will nothing make you stick to the subject?” I cried; “you have the most irrelevant mind! How do you expect to rise in your profession? The inn?”