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.

CHAPTER TWO

_Of the further astonishing conduct of the
said Mr. Tawnish_

Myself and Bentley were engaged upon our usual morning game of chess,
when there came a knocking at the door, and my man, Peter, entered.

"Checkmate!" says I.

"No!" says Bentley, castelling.

"Begging your pardon, Sir Richard," says Peter, "but here's a man with a
message."

"Oh, devil take your man with a message, Peter!--the game is mine in six
moves," says I, bringing up my queen's knight.

"No," says Bentley, "steady up the bishop."

"From Sir John Chester," says Peter, holding the note under my nose.

"Oh! Sir John Chester--check!"

"What in the world can Jack want?" says Bentley, reaching for his wig.

"Check!" says I.

"Why, what can have put him out again?" says Bentley, pointing to the
letter--"look at the blots."

Jack is a bad enough hand with the pen at all times, but when in a
passion, his writing is always more or less illegible by reason of the
numerous blots and smudges; on the present occasion it was very evident
that he was more put out than usual.

"Some new villainy of the fellow Raikes, you may depend," says I,
breaking the seal.

"No," says Bentley, "I'll lay you twenty, it refers to young Tawnish."

"Done!" I nodded, and spreading out the paper I read (with no little
difficulty) as follows:

DEAR DICK AND BENTLEY,

Come round and see me at once, for the devil anoint me if I ever
heard tell the like on't, and more especially after the exhibition
of a week ago. To my mind, 'tis but a cloak to mask his cowardice,
as you will both doubtless agree when you shall have read this note.

Yours,

JACK.

"Well, but where's his meaning? 'Tis ever Jack's way to forget the very
kernel of news," grumbled Bentley.

"Pooh! 'tis plain enough," says I, "he means Raikes; any but a fool
would know that."

"Lay you fifty it's Tawnish," says Bentley, in his stubborn way.

"Done!" says I.

"Stay a moment, Dick," says Bentley, as I rose, "what of our Pen,--she
hasn't asked you yet how Jack hurt his foot, has she?"

"Not a word."

"Ha!" says Bentley, with a ponderous nod, "w