My friend Crosby, without any sort of salutation or prologue, immediately cried out “_Ground_, gentlemen! _ground—ground!_ come, d—n measurement, to work!” and placing me on his selected spot, whispered into my ear “_Medio tutissimus ibis_: never look at the _head_ or the _heels_: _hip_ the maccaroni! the hip for ever, my boy! hip, hip!”—when my antagonist’s second, advancing and accosting mine, said, Mr. Daly could not think of going any further with the business; that he found it was totally a mistake on his part, originating through misrepresentation, and that he begged to say he was extremely sorry for having given Mr. Barrington and his friend the trouble of coming out, hoping they would excuse it and shake hands with him. To this arrangement I certainly had no sort of objection; but Crosby, without hesitation, said, “We cannot do that _yet_ sir: I’ll _show_ you we _can’t_: (taking a little manuscript book out of his breeches pocket,) there’s the _rules_!—look at that, sir,” continued he, “see No. 7.:—‘No apology can be received _after_ the parties meet, _without a fire_.’ You see, there’s the rule,” pursued Crosby, with infinite self-satisfaction; “and a young man on his _first blood_ cannot break rule, particularly with a gentleman so used to the sport as Mr. Daly. Come, gentlemen, proceed! proceed!”
Daly appeared much displeased, but took his ground, without speaking a word, about nine paces from me. He presented his pistol instantly, but gave me most gallantly a full front.
It being, as Crosby said, my first blood, I lost no time, but let fly without a single _second_ of delay, and without taking aim: Daly staggered back two or three steps; put his hand to his breast; cried, “I’m hit, sir!” and did not fire. Crosby gave me a slap on the back which staggered me, and a squeeze of the hand which nearly crushed my fingers. We got round him: his waistcoat was opened, and a black spot, about the size of a crown-piece, with a little blood, appeared directly on his breast-bone. I was greatly shocked: fortunately, however, the ball had not penetrated; but his brooch had been broken, and a piece of the setting was sticking fast in the bone. Crosby stamped, cursed the damp powder or under-loading, and calmly pulled out the brooch: Daly said not a word; put his cambric handkerchief doubled to his breast, and bowed. I returned the salute, extremely glad to get out of the scrape, and so we parted without conversation or ceremony; save that when I expressed my wish to know the _cause_ of his challenging me, Daly replied that he would _now_ give no such explanation, and _his_ friend then produced his book of rules, quoting No. 8.:—“If a party challenged accept the challenge without asking the reason of it, the challenger is never bound to divulge it afterward.”