The bearer of his cartel was one Jack Hamlin, I grieve to say a
gambler by profession, but between whom and John Milton had sprung up an
odd friendship of which the best that can be said is that it was to each
equally and unselfishly unprofitable. The challenge was accepted, the
preliminaries arranged. "I suppose," said Jack carelessly, "as the old
man ought to do something for your wife in case of accident, you've made
some sort of a will?"
"I've thought of that," said John Milton, dubiously, "but I'm afraid
it's no use. You see"--he hesitated--"I'm not of age."
"May I ask how old you are, sonny?" said Jack with great gravity.
"I'm almost twenty," said John Milton, coloring.
"It isn't exactly vingt-et-un, but I'd stand on it; if I were you I
wouldn't draw to such a hand," said Jack, coolly.
The young husband had arranged to be absent from his home that night,
and early morning found him, with Jack, grave, but courageous, in a
little hollow behind the Mission Hills. To them presently approached his
antagonist, jauntily accompanied by Colonel Starbottle, his second. They
halted, but after the formal salutation were instantly joined by Jack
Hamlin. For a few moments John Milton remained awkwardly alone--pending
a conversation which even at that supreme moment he felt as being
like the general attitude of his friends towards him, in its complete
ignoring of himself.
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