Well, the swords are measured, Galgenstein strips off his doublet, and I my handsome cut-velvet in like fashion.

Galgenstein flings off his hat, and I handed mine over--the lace on it cost me twenty pounds.

I longed to be at him, for--curse him!--I hate him, and know that he has no chance with me at sword's-play.
"'You'll not fight in that periwig, sure ?' says Macshane.

'Of course not,' says I, and took it off.
"May all barbers be roasted in flames; may all periwigs, bobwigs, scratchwigs, and Ramillies cocks, frizzle in purgatory from this day forth to the end of time! Mine was the ruin of me: what might I not have been now but for that wig! "I gave it over to Ensign Macshane, and with it went what I had quite forgotten, the large patch which I wore over one eye, which popped out fierce, staring, and lively as was ever any eye in the world.
"'Come on!' says I, and made a lunge at my Count; but he sprang back (the dog was as active as a hare, and knew, from old times, that I was his master with the small-sword), and his second, wondering, struck up my blade.
"'I will not fight that man,' says he, looking mighty pale.

'I swear upon my honour that his name is Peter Brock: he was for two years my corporal, and deserted, running away with a thousand pounds of my moneys.