"Then we will leave it thus for the present, Sir John," says the Captain, bowing and turning away, "and I trust your foot will speedily be well again."
"Which is as much as wishing me speedily dead!" says Jack, with a rueful shake of the head. "Raikes is a devil of a fellow and generally pinks his man--eh, Dick and Bentley?"
"Oh, my poor Jack!" sighed Bentley, turning his broad back upon Sir Harry, who, having bowed to us very formally, swaggered off with the others at his heels.
"Man, Jack," says I, "you'll never fight--you cannot--you shall not!"
"Aye, but I shall!" says Jack, grimly.
"'Twill be plain murder!" says Bentley.
"And--think of Pen!" says I.
"Aye, Pen!" sighed Jack. "My pretty Pen! She'll be lonely awhile, methinks, but--thank God, she'll have you and Bentley still!"
And so, having presently summoned a coach (for Jack's foot was become too swollen for the stirrup), we all three of us got in and were driven to the Manor. And I must say, a gloomier trio never passed out of Tonbridge Town, for it was well known to us that there was no man in all the South Country who could stand up to Sir Harry Raikes; and moreover, that unless some miracle chanced to stop the meeting, our old friend was as surely a dead man as if he already lay in his coffin.