They went in at the bar of the tavern, and desired a private room and wine and cards, and when the drawer had brought these, they began to drink and call healths, and as long as the servants were in the room appeared very friendly.

Harry Esmond’s plan was no other than to engage in talk with Lord Mohun, to insult him, and so get the first of the quarrel.  So when cards were proposed he offered to play.  “Psha!” says my Lord Mohun (whether wishing to save Harry, or not choosing, to try the botte de Jesuite, it is not to be known)—­“Young gentlemen from college should not play these stakes.  You are too young.”

“Who dares say I am too young?” broke out Harry.  “Is your lordship afraid?”

“Afraid!” cries out Mohun.

But my good Lord Viscount saw the move—­“I’ll play you for ten moidores, Mohun,” says he.  “You silly boy, we don’t play for groats here as you do at Cambridge.”  And Harry, who had no such sum in his pocket (for his half-year’s salary was always pretty well spent before it was due), fell back with rage and vexation in his heart that he had not money enough to stake.

“I’ll stake the young gentleman a crown,” says the Lord Mohun’s captain.

“I thought crowns were rather scarce with the gentlemen of the army,” says Harry.

“Do they birch at College?” says the Captain.

“They birch fools,” says Harry, “and they cane bullies, and they fling puppies into the water.”

“Faith, then, there’s some escapes drowning,” says the Captain, who was an Irishman; and all the gentlemen began to laugh, and made poor Harry only more angry.

My Lord Mohun presently snuffed a candle.  It was when the drawers brought in fresh bottles and glasses and were in the room on which my Lord Viscount said—­“The Deuce take you, Mohun, how damned awkward you are.  Light the candle, you drawer.”

“Damned awkward is a damned awkward expression, my lord,” says the other.  “Town gentlemen don’t use such words—­or ask pardon if they do.”

“I’m a country gentleman,” says my Lord Viscount.

“I see it by your manner,” says my Lord Mohun.  “No man shall say damned awkward to me.”

“I fling the words in your face, my lord,” says the other; “shall I send the cards too?”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! before the servants?” cry out Colonel Westbury and my Lord Warwick in a breath.  The drawers go out of the room hastily.  They tell the people below of the quarrel up stairs.

“Enough has been said,” says Colonel Westbury.  “Will your lordships meet to-morrow morning?”

“Will my Lord Castlewood withdraw his words?” asks the Earl of Warwick.

“My Lord Castlewood will be ——­ first,” says Colonel Westbury.

“Then we have nothing for it.  Take notice, gentlemen, there have been outrageous words—­reparation asked and refused.”

“And refused,” says my Lord Castlewood, putting on his hat.  “Where shall the meeting be? and when?”