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Authors: Paul di Filippo
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chipped.)
“That’s the trick, Coz! Yer onto it now! You may not reckon it, but yer holdin’ the world’s finest Peacemaker. I done toted this little honey all over the globe, and she never let me down once. Hellfire, you don’t even got to hit nothin’ vital to kill that polecat. Jest whang him in the fingertip and he’ll likely die of shock. I blowed the head offen a buffalo with this darlin’ from a hunnerd yards away.”
Cowperthwait laid the monstrous gun back among the rags. His arms were quivering. “No, Nails, I’m afraid not. It simply wouldn’t be sporting, since we haven’t its mate to offer Chuting-Payne. And I fear I’d be stone-dead before I could lift your Colt up to fire. No, you’d best fetch my father’s set. It’s time we were off.”
Reluctantly McGroaty wrapped up his gun, breathed a sigh of consternation, as if unable to fathom Cowperthwait’s finicky morals, and went off to secure the aforementioned pistols.
Soon he returned with a mahogany box. Cowperthwait lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet depressions, were a brace of small pearl-handled pistols.
The selfsame guns purchased by Clive Cowperthwait in anticipation of his duel with Marc Isambard Brunel.
Cowperthwait shed a tear at the thought of his father and mother, and the whole tragic family history. He thought also of Ikky Brunel, who had just promised him a guided tour of The Great Western, the marvelous transatlantic steamship about to have its maiden voyage. Now it looked as if he would never get a chance to witness that marvel of this wondrous age. Ah, life—how bittersweet. . . .
“Very good,” said Cowperthwait, closing the lid. “That leaves only a few points of unfinished business. Nails, keep this on your person. It’s my last will and testament. You’ll find that you’re my sole heir.”
McGroaty wiped his eyes. “Reckon I’d better make out my own then, cuz I’ll be coolin’ my heels in the calaboose afore I swing by the neck.”
“Why?”
“Cuz when Chuting-Payne croaks you, I aim to croak him.”
“Nails, I appreciate the sentiment, but please don’t. It would stain the family honor.”
“Ain’t nothing you could do to stop me, Coz, but I promise anyhow.”
“Very good. Now, here is a letter for Lady Cornwall, along with the last of my growth factor for her ward, Vicky. Please make sure she gets them.”
McGroaty overcame his disdain of the Lyceum mistress enough to agree to this.
“Excellent. Finally be so good as to fetch Tiptoft.”
When the sweep appeared, straws in his hair and rubbing crumbs of sleep from his eyes, Cowperthwait handed him an envelope.
“Tiptoft, here’s a draft on my bank for a hundred pounds. You are hereby discharged from my services.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the lad. “I’m off to Australia to make my fortune!”
Cowperthwait patted the sweep on the head and saw him out the door. Turning to McGroaty, he said, “Let’s depart. We don’t want to keep the noble bastard waiting.”
In the trap, rattling through the empty pre-dawn London streets, Cowperthwait tried to gauge his feelings. He was remarkably calm and clear-headed, especially considering neither he nor McGroaty had gotten any sleep since the fracas at de Mallet’s just a few hours ago. He was surprised to find that the prospect of his imminent death did not trouble him in the least. It seemed, rather, a relief to know that everything would soon be over. The failure of his experiments with the salamander known as Victoria, followed by the frustrating and enervating quest for the human Victoria and his disillusionment with Lady Cornwall, had left him weary and dispirited. There seemed little left in life to engage his interests, and, despite his physiological youth, he felt himself a veritable greybeard. Better to have it over with now, than drag through life with this premature ennui. . . .
Soon they had left the sprawling metropolis behind. In under an hour, they were
“That’s the trick, Coz! Yer onto it now! You may not reckon it, but yer holdin’ the world’s finest Peacemaker. I done toted this little honey all over the globe, and she never let me down once. Hellfire, you don’t even got to hit nothin’ vital to kill that polecat. Jest whang him in the fingertip and he’ll likely die of shock. I blowed the head offen a buffalo with this darlin’ from a hunnerd yards away.”
Cowperthwait laid the monstrous gun back among the rags. His arms were quivering. “No, Nails, I’m afraid not. It simply wouldn’t be sporting, since we haven’t its mate to offer Chuting-Payne. And I fear I’d be stone-dead before I could lift your Colt up to fire. No, you’d best fetch my father’s set. It’s time we were off.”
Reluctantly McGroaty wrapped up his gun, breathed a sigh of consternation, as if unable to fathom Cowperthwait’s finicky morals, and went off to secure the aforementioned pistols.
Soon he returned with a mahogany box. Cowperthwait lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in velvet depressions, were a brace of small pearl-handled pistols.
The selfsame guns purchased by Clive Cowperthwait in anticipation of his duel with Marc Isambard Brunel.
Cowperthwait shed a tear at the thought of his father and mother, and the whole tragic family history. He thought also of Ikky Brunel, who had just promised him a guided tour of The Great Western, the marvelous transatlantic steamship about to have its maiden voyage. Now it looked as if he would never get a chance to witness that marvel of this wondrous age. Ah, life—how bittersweet. . . .
“Very good,” said Cowperthwait, closing the lid. “That leaves only a few points of unfinished business. Nails, keep this on your person. It’s my last will and testament. You’ll find that you’re my sole heir.”
McGroaty wiped his eyes. “Reckon I’d better make out my own then, cuz I’ll be coolin’ my heels in the calaboose afore I swing by the neck.”
“Why?”
“Cuz when Chuting-Payne croaks you, I aim to croak him.”
“Nails, I appreciate the sentiment, but please don’t. It would stain the family honor.”
“Ain’t nothing you could do to stop me, Coz, but I promise anyhow.”
“Very good. Now, here is a letter for Lady Cornwall, along with the last of my growth factor for her ward, Vicky. Please make sure she gets them.”
McGroaty overcame his disdain of the Lyceum mistress enough to agree to this.
“Excellent. Finally be so good as to fetch Tiptoft.”
When the sweep appeared, straws in his hair and rubbing crumbs of sleep from his eyes, Cowperthwait handed him an envelope.
“Tiptoft, here’s a draft on my bank for a hundred pounds. You are hereby discharged from my services.”
“Hurrah!” shouted the lad. “I’m off to Australia to make my fortune!”
Cowperthwait patted the sweep on the head and saw him out the door. Turning to McGroaty, he said, “Let’s depart. We don’t want to keep the noble bastard waiting.”
In the trap, rattling through the empty pre-dawn London streets, Cowperthwait tried to gauge his feelings. He was remarkably calm and clear-headed, especially considering neither he nor McGroaty had gotten any sleep since the fracas at de Mallet’s just a few hours ago. He was surprised to find that the prospect of his imminent death did not trouble him in the least. It seemed, rather, a relief to know that everything would soon be over. The failure of his experiments with the salamander known as Victoria, followed by the frustrating and enervating quest for the human Victoria and his disillusionment with Lady Cornwall, had left him weary and dispirited. There seemed little left in life to engage his interests, and, despite his physiological youth, he felt himself a veritable greybeard. Better to have it over with now, than drag through life with this premature ennui. . . .
Soon they had left the sprawling metropolis behind. In under an hour, they were
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