Jack Harkaway's Boy Tinker Among The Turks - Bracebridge Hemyng (10 ebook reader .txt) 📗

"'For Mole, indeed, my heart is woe,

As one in doleful dumps;

For when his feet were cut away,

He walked upon his stumps.'"

By this time the train had stopped, and all the party got out, except Mole.

As Harkaway had said, there was no vehicle in the station nor outside of it, so Mr. Mole was obliged to remain till his friends could hit upon some plan for removing him.

A porter was the first to make a suggestion.

"An artificial limb maker lives opposite, monsieur," said he.

"Ah!"

"If I carried monsieur over, he might have some—ah—substitutes fitted on."

"A capital idea!" exclaimed Harvey; "over with him." And before Mole could remonstrate, he was hoisted to the porter's shoulders, and trotted across the street.

Great was the joy of the Parisian gamins at having such a sight provided for their amusement.

Mole, however, bravely bore the chaff, half of which he did not understand.

The maker of artificial limbs soon fitted poor Mole with a pair of legs.

But alas!

No sooner had he stood upon them than his friends burst out in a loud laugh.

"What is the matter with you?" demanded Mr. Mole, who felt inclined to stand on his dignity as well as on his new legs.

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"I wonder you don't remember what Goldsmith says," continued Mole.

"What does he say, Mr. Mole?"

"Don't you remember that line about 'the loud laugh that speaks the vacant mind.' I fear your mind must be very vacant, Mr. Harvey."

"He had you there, Uncle Dick," said young Jack.

"Pooh! But look at his legs."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed young Jack in turn.

Mr. Mole's trousers, it will be recollected, had been cut away below the knees immediately after his railway accident, and now he stood in a pair of nicely-varnished boots, above which could be seen the various springs and hinges of his mechanical limbs.

The trouser legs were not longer in proportion than a small boy's knickerbockers.

By this time, however, a cab or two had turned up, and, the ladies having been fetched from the railway waiting-room, the whole party proceeded to one of the many good hotels Paris possesses.

The third evening after their arrival, young Jack and Harry Girdwood strolled out together.

They no doubt would have enjoyed the company of the two girls, but little Emily and Paquita had been roving about the town all day long, and were too tired to go out that evening.

"What is this place, Jack?" asked Harry, as they both paused in front of a narrow, but brilliantly-lighted doorway.

"A shooting gallery, I fancy."

"Shall we go in?"

"Certainly; but I don't fancy the French are very great 'shootists,' as the Yankees say."

"All the more fun, perhaps."

And without more talk, the youngsters walked in.

It was a long room, divided by slight partitions into four different galleries, and at the end of each of these was a target in the shape of a doll.

After watching others for a time, Harry took half a dozen shots at one of the figures, which he struck four times.

Young Jack then tried, and was equally successful.

"Good shooting, young gentlemen," said one of the spectators, an Englishman; "but if you want to see real pistol practice, look at this Frenchman."

And he pointed to a tall, dark man who was just preparing to fire.

The target he had before him was not a little doll like the others, but a full-sized lay figure dressed in black, closely buttoned up, and holding in its hand an empty pistol pointed towards the live shooter.

"He is a noted duellist," said the Englishman, "and has killed more than one adversary."

Jack and Harry looked at him with considerable curiosity, with which was mixed a tinge of loathing.

The duellist had brought his own pistols, one of which he carefully loaded, and having placed himself in position, rapidly aimed and fired.

Instantly the lay figure showed a spot of white on its black coat, which, after all, was only made of a kind of paste or varnish, which chipped off when struck by the bullet.

"Straight to the heart," said the Englishman.

"That's good shooting," exclaimed Harry Girdwood.

The Frenchman fired again, making an equally good shot.

When he had fired ten, young Jack for the first time broke silence.

"I don't believe he could do that in the field with a live adversary and a loaded pistol opposite him."

The Frenchman again pulled the trigger, but the eleventh shot flew wide of the mark.

Almost foaming with passion at having missed his aim, he dashed the weapon to the ground.

"I must request the gentleman who spoke to stand the test."

"With great pleasure," responded Jack, coolly.

The Frenchman stared at the speaker.

"Bah! I don't fight with boys."

"Then I shall proclaim to all Paris that you are a cur, and try to back out of a quarrel when your challenge is accepted."

"Very well, then, you shall die in the morning. Henri,"—this to a friend—"arrange with the English boy's second if he has one; if he has not, find him one."

The Englishman who had previously spoken at once stepped forward and offered his services.

"Although," said he, "I should much prefer to see this affair settled peacefully."

"I am entirely in your hands, sir," responded Jack.

And he retired to the other side of the room.

"Jack, Jack! what demon possessed you to get into such a mess?"

"No demon, Harry, but some of my father's hot blood. He was always very prompt to accept a challenge."

"He will not let you fight."

"He will not know till it is settled. Listen to me, Harry, if you tell him or anyone else, or try to stop the plan that my second may propose, I swear I'll never speak to you again."

"But you stand every chance of being killed."

"Harry, we have both of us faced death many times, and I am sure I am not going to turn my back on a Frenchman."

Poor Harry could say nothing more.

The Englishman rejoined them.

"I can't get that fellow to accept an apology——!"

"That's right," interposed Jack.

His second looked surprised at the youth's coolness, and continued—

"So I must parade you in the Bois de Boulogne at sunrise. It's about an hour's drive."

"Where shall we meet you?"

The second hesitated, and then named a time and place.

"Now," said Jack, "I will go and have a little sleep; not at home, but somewhere in this neighbourhood."

They went to a respectable hotel close by, and Jack, having made a few simple arrangements (including a message to Emily), in case of being killed, laid himself on his bed, and was soon slumbering peacefully.

About a quarter of an hour after the sun had risen, they were all upon the ground.

Jack and Harry with their second, and the Frenchman with his.

There was also a surgeon present.

Little time was lost.

The pistols were loaded, according to previous arrangement between the two seconds, with a lighter charge than usual, so that Jack might possibly escape with only a flesh wound instead of having a hole drilled right through him.

The combatants were then placed half facing each other, fifteen paces apart.

"There is a grave suspicion afloat that your adversary has an ugly knack of pulling the trigger half a second too soon," whispered Jack's second, "so I am going to give him a caution."

A pistol was placed in the hand of each, and then Jack's second spoke.

"Listen, gentlemen. You will fire when I give the word three. If either pulls the trigger before that word is pronounced, it will be murder."

He looked at the Frenchman, and then counted—

"One, two, three!"

But before the word "three" had fully passed his lips, the Frenchman's pistol was discharged.

Young Jack, however, prepared for such a trick, had just a moment before turned full towards him and stared him in the face.

This manœuvre was entirely successful.

The Frenchman's unfair, murderous aim was disconcerted, and his bullet whistled harmlessly past our hero's ear.

Jack then deliberately levelled his pistol at the Frenchman, who trembled violently, and showed every symptom of the most abject terror.

"I thought so," exclaimed Jack. "A vile coward as well as a murderer."

And he discharged his own pistol in the air.

"Why did you not shoot the villain?"