Act the Fourth.

Scene I.—A room at the Dolphin Inn. Guns, pistols, swords, and other weapons scattered around. Whetstone in armor, lying upon a sofa, disquietly sleeping.

Enter Bluegrass carrying a large dictionary.

Bluegrass.

He sleeps. ’Tis well. For centuries men, with eager eyes fixed upon the horizon, have awaited the coming of the purely literary duel. The auspicious morn is about to dawn, in fact, to bloom upon this magnificent star of ours, when, in affairs of honor, bloody swords, odious gunpowder, and slaughtering bullets no longer shall disgrace the planet.

Whetstone [dreaming].

Take away the sword! Do not say I killed you!

Bluegrass.

He dreams of the combat. Rest, warrior, rest! Safe within this volume, and at your timely service, are such dire missiles, fearful and momentous cartridges, bombs, shells, fowling-pieces, blunderbusses, mortars, and battering-rams, as have rent nations asunder and awed the world. Can base gunpowder and lead do so much? O puissant volume, armory and magazine, I will select from your mighty stores, for my principal’s sake, weapons which shall strike terror and dismay to his adversary’s heart. Yes, a full dozen of as bold bad words as were ever conned from out thy depths by a dyspeptic writer at midnight hour in editorial den.

[A rooster crows.

Whetstone [still dreaming].

See how he glares upon me!

Bluegrass.

Rest, warrior, rest! You go forth not to death, but to glorious immortality.

[Rooster crows.

Whetstone [starting up].

Take him away; he is killing me! Oh, oh! [Observing Bluegrass] Who are you?

Bluegrass [cheerfully].

Your trusty friend and second in this valiant enterprise. I’ve just returned from Fopdoodle’s second. We have arranged the place, time, weapons, and conditions of the duel very satisfactorily.

Whetstone.

You seem to enjoy it!

Bluegrass.

Listen, and you’ll enjoy it too.

Whetstone.

Let me know the worst.

Bluegrass.

Place, the little clearing in the darkened wood behind the hill.

Whetstone.

Why didn’t you make it in the West, behind the Rocky Mountains?

Bluegrass.

Time, one hour before sunrise.

Whetstone.

Why didn’t you make it next year, in the dark of the moon? Major, I feel that my blood will be upon your so-called head.

Bluegrass.

Not if my head can save you, and I think it can. With some acuteness, I secured Scythe as attendant surgeon, in case of an accident, and he has already gone to the spot with all his surgical implements of healing.

[Rooster crows.

Whetstone.

What’s that? Is’t the signal?

Bluegrass.

Listen! now for the weapons.

Whetstone.

Don’t, Major, don’t!

Bluegrass.

With some archness in archery, I first chose crossbows as most fitting for lovers’ duels, but abandoned them as too crosswise. Blunderbusses I rejected, as too blundering for us; and, noting the weakness of our enemy in diction, I at last chose dictionaries, big and unabridged, and made by the most celebrated word-smiths.

Whetstone.

Dictionaries! Did you say dictionaries? Major, now my anger is reviving. Now, by all that’s terrible, I’ll fight till there’s not a leaf or lid left. Why, the first blow I give him shall be a jaw-breaker. He’ll think himself smitten, like the Philistines, by a jawbone. Major, get me a dictionary with iron clasps; but one is not enough, my boy. I’ll strike him with two dictionaries.

[Rooster crows.

Bluegrass.

Erroneous hero! You are in honor bound not to deal him any blows with vulgar material-bound paper.

Whetstone.

How then, my boy, how then?

Bluegrass.

Listen to the conditions of the duel. At a distance of two paces, you and Fopdoodle, each aided by his respective second, will each respectively select, for each fire from his inexhaustible dictionary or armory, one animal noun for his projectile, and one adjective,—for your adjective is your gunpowder to your bullet of a noun. These two, to wit: one animal noun and one adjective, each of you will form into a cartridge, or epithet, and at the word Fire each will fire it at his adversary.

Whetstone.

Bless you, my boy, we are saved! You shall always be editor of the Eagle. My boy, you must have known I didn’t want to kill him. Major, stand by me to the last.

Bluegrass.

I’ll do it. I am a connoisseur in epithets; and your animal noun with adjective conjoined is a terrible weapon. O book, how like a poet thou art!—in pleasant moods full of balmlike words, but in anger javelined like a porcupine. Be thou a cage filled to the cover’s brim with fierce animal nouns which fret their paper cage of leaves to pounce upon the enemy. Remember, at each fire call him some outrageous animal, and exploit the animal with an explosive adjective.

Whetstone.

I’ll do it. The gourd-headed baboon!

[Rooster crows.

Bluegrass.

Good; a very fine line shot! But don’t waste your ammunition here. Wait until you get your enemy into close quarters, and meanwhile steady your nerves and tongue. Remember, no faltering of the tongue.

Whetstone.

How goes the night outdoors?

Bluegrass.

All’s well! Now shall I behold the first genuine literary duel ever fought on this magnificent star of ours, while the sun trails his sanguinary banners along the eastern sky.

[Rooster crows.

Whetstone.

Why does he crow so often?

Bluegrass.

It is the martial bird of morn, brave chanticleer—the vocal lighthouse of the dawn. Six times has the rooster crowed. [Rooster again crows.] And yet again he crows,—seven times, mysterious number! With crimson comb and whetted spurs, he sniffs this duel from his lofty perch in the heavenly balcony.

Whetstone.

How says the time?

Bluegrass.

It lacks but little of the hour. We’ll prove no laggards on the field of honor. Come on. Make haste! Away, away, or we’ll be late to join the fray! We’ll get our lanterns on the way. [Rooster crows.]

[Exeunt.

Scene II.—A clearing in a wood. Scythe, with lantern, arranging surgical instruments.

Enter, running, Fopdoodle, attended by Tom, his valet and second, carrying lantern and dictionary.

Fopdoodle.

What man is this?

Tom.

Good master, this is the attendant surgeon, agreed upon by Whetstone’s second and myself, your own second and humble valet.

Fopdoodle.

Kind Mr. Surgeon, if we two fall at once, save me first; and I promise you a great reward from father’s patrimony. And as our wounds we do refer to you, I move to make you referee. Kind Mr. Surgeon, prescribe for me a breathing spell. [Scythe examines him with glass.] Tom, my man, stand firm! For as we crossed through yonder green and peaceful field, by some ominous mischance a sleeping, low-bred, fiery bull arose, with eyes big as our lanterns, filled with the flaming fat of animal fury. He chased; and as we fled, I thought I was pursued by an infuriated animal noun. Oh, doctor, prescribe for me a breathing spell.

Tom.

Good master, here is your dictionary, if you’d take a breathing spell.

Fopdoodle.

Unlettered ruffian, uncompassionate fool, do I clothe and fee you for this? Hand me my spirit of hartshorn to brace my spirits up. [Using smelling-bottle.] Had I but had this spirit of hartshorn in my nostrils, I would have had the spirit to face a thousand bulls. Where’s the infuriated dictionary?

Tom.

Here it is, good master.

Fopdoodle.

Turn to the fearful B’s; I know some good shots in the B’s.

Tom.

Here they are, good master.

Fopdoodle.

Do we yet espy the foe?

Scythe [looking through glass].

I see him coming over the brow of the hill, and he’ll be here in a wink.

Fopdoodle.

Alas, if I should fall!

Tom.

I’ll raise you up again.

Fopdoodle.

Base horizontal knave, thou canst again raise up my body, but not my character.

Enter Whetstone and Bluegrass, with lantern and dictionary.

Bluegrass.

A brave salutation, gentlemen! We will pursue the code of honor where it does not conflict with us. Let the principals advance, and shake hands in the usual way, to show that they in humor and honor are not ill. [Whetstone and Fopdoodle advance and shake hands. To Tom] We must compare size, weight, and calibre of type. [They compare dictionaries.] The weapons are of the same edition. Now for choice of positions; but there are two esteemed objects in the heavens,—Mars and the moon; for them we’ll toss up. [To Tom] Head or tail? [Tosses up a coin.]

Tom.

Tail.

Bluegrass.

Head it is. I’ve won! I place Fopdoodle with the moon in his face, and Whetstone with the planet Mars at his back. [Measures off two paces and places the principals.] In affairs of honor, delay is a vice, despatch a virtue. I propose, between each fire, thirty seconds for loading, that after the words, One, two,—fire! each one shall fire, and that this continue until one be prostrated; also that Surgeon Scythe give the word and be referee. But we’ll try to preserve a gentlemanly harmony.

Tom.

We agree.

[Each second supports his principal, and Scythe times them with his watch.

Fopdoodle.

Tom, my man, turn to the C’s; I know a terrible animal noun in the C’s.

Bluegrass.

Here, Mayor Whetstone, is your adjective for gunpowder,—Patagonian.

Whetstone.

I’ll take bat for a bullet.

Bluegrass.

Now, by the planet Mars, you have chosen the most unearthly bullet in the whole menagerie of animal nouns.

Fopdoodle [to Tom].

I’ve got it. I now turn to U for my gunpowder.

Tom.

Master, I have no gunpowder.

Fopdoodle.

You unlettered utensil, you! The letter U.

Scythe.

Time! One, two,—fire!

Whetstone.

Patagonian bat!

Fopdoodle [pronouncing calf with broad sound of letter a].

Unutterable calf!

Bluegrass.

A foul! a foul! I claim a foul.

Scythe.

Upon what do you base your foul?

Bluegrass.

Upon the letter a in calf. In place of rightly firing calf with the Italian sound of a, as in bah, he wrongly fired calf with a broad. Therefore he fired a broadside, with sound the same as in ball. I claim the foul is sound.

Scythe.

Let me examine your weapon [examining Fopdoodle’s dictionary]. I plainly see a calf with two little dots like budding horns above the letter a, denoting the Italian sound; and as you wrongfully fired broad a, and as broad a in your weapon is denoted by two little dots below the a, I rule you struck below the belt, and hence a foul.

Bluegrass.

First foul for Fopdoodle.

Whetstone [aside].

See him tremble.

Fopdoodle [aside].

I struck him badly.

Scythe.

Gentlemen, are your honors satisfied?

Whetstone.

Never! War to the word knife!

Fopdoodle.

Never! War to the word hilt!

Scythe.

Then sadly be it said: Reload. I’ll see if there is any blood on yonder red and warlike Mars. [Looks at Mars with glass, while the others reload from dictionaries.] Time! One, two,—fire!

Fopdoodle.

Hyperborean ibex!

Whetstone.

Parabolical goose!

Scythe.

Are you satisfied?

Fopdoodle.

Never! War to the word knife!

Whetstone.

Never! War to the word hilt!

Scythe.

Reload. [They reload.] Time! One, two,—fire!

Fopdoodle.

Impecunious porcupine!

Whetstone.

Hypothecated buzzard!

[Lightning and thunder, while Scythe examines the sky with glass.

Fopdoodle.

Listen, Tom! I think I hear the police! The police! Let us be going!

Bluegrass.

Hold! ’Tis but the thunder, heaven’s police drilling near the distant horizon. Let their lanterns flash and their clubs smash the sky, but this duel shall go on.

Scythe.

Gentlemen, reload. [They reload.] Time! One, two,—

Fopdoodle.

Hold! My tongue slipped.

Tom.

And the lightning’s blown my lantern out.

[Lightning and thunder.

Bluegrass [re-lighting Tom’s lantern].

I hope I may re-light your lantern without an explosion. A fearful storm is brewing, but we must make them fight until one falls.

Tom.

I’ll stand by my master.

Scythe.

Time! One, two,—fire!

Whetstone.

Categorical catamount!

Fopdoodle.

Bog-trotting bull-frog!

Bluegrass.

Foul, foul, a most terrible and bulldozing foul,—a double-barrelled fowling-piece; a two-bullet foul.

Tom.

A bull-frog is no fowl.

Bluegrass.

A most naked and unfeathered fowl.

Scythe.

Upon what purely scientific facts do you now perch your alleged fowl?

Bluegrass.

Upon the rail between bull and frog. Bull-frog is a compound animal noun, composed of one bull and one frog, connected by a hyphen, or narrow ligament, like the Siamese twins,—two animals in one. I ask judgment.

[Lightning and thunder.

Scythe.

Listen to my decision; for though it should rain bull-frogs, I’ll decide by analysis. The difference lies between the grammatical bull-frog and the purely animal bull-frog. Grammar does not concern the animal bull-frog, but has much to do with the word bull-frog. The purely animal bull-frog is manifestly not a fowl; but inasmuch as by the rules only one animal noun is allowed at a shot, and whereas the grammatical bull-frog is compounded of two animals linked by a hyphen, I declare them a chain-shot, disallowed in civilized warfare, and a foul of the worst description.

Tom.

Good master, he says ’tis a foul.

Fopdoodle.

We’re in bad odor with this referee. I smell foul play. Give me my spirit of hartshorn, or I faint.

Tom.

Here it is, good master.

[Fopdoodle smells of hartshorn, and Whetstone drinks out of a flask.

Scythe.

Time! One, two,—fire!

Fopdoodle.

Humpbacked sham!

Whetstone.

Infamous liar!

Fopdoodle.

You man in buckram! You rambling sham! You blue sham, three-cornered sham, catalectic sham! You panting, rampant sham, black sham, white sham, speckled sham!

Bluegrass [to Scythe].

Stop him! He has opened the menagerie. Foul, foul! He has fired a whole sham battery.

Whetstone.

I’ll slay him on the spot. You catacomb! you catastrophic, cataleptic, catacoustic cat! Pooh! you spotted poodle, you freckled poodle, you yellow-brindled poodle! dogfish! you dogmatic-dogwood-doggerel dog.

[Lightning and thunder.

Tom [supporting Fopdoodle].

Good master, bear up. ’Tis only a shower of cats and dogs.

Fopdoodle [fainting].

Give me a drink of tiger’s blood!

Bluegrass [to Whetstone].

See, you have struck him; he is falling.

[Fopdoodle falls, clasping his dictionary.

Scythe [to Tom].

Run quickly. Catch me a sheep in yonder field. By transfusing blood from its veins to his, I’ll make the weak brave, the faint alive. [Taking up a surgical instrument.] Now, great Science, help me!

Tom.

Good master, I go to get the sheep.

[Exit Tom.

Bluegrass.

Long live and let live the literary duel!

[Lightning and thunder. The scene closes while Whetstone, Bluegrass, and Scythe gather around Fopdoodle, administering to him.