Presently there were moving figures over by a farther tee and the watchers made out Barban and his French second—the latter carried the box of pistols under his arm.
Somewhat appalled, McKisco slipped behind Abe and took a long swallow of brandy.
He walked on choking and would have marched directly up into the other party, but Abe stopped him and went forward to talk to the Frenchman.
The sun was over the horizon.
Campion grabbed Rosemary’s arm.
“I can’t stand it,” he squeaked, almost voiceless.
“It’s too much.
This will cost me—”
“Let go,” Rosemary said peremptorily. She breathed a frantic prayer in French.
The principals faced each other, Barban with the sleeve rolled up from his arm.
His eyes gleamed restlessly in the sun, but his motion was deliberate as he wiped his palm on the seam of his trousers. McKisco, reckless with brandy, pursed his lips in a whistle and pointed his long nose about nonchalantly, until Abe stepped forward with a handkerchief in his hand.
The French second stood with his face turned away.
Rosemary caught her breath in terrible pity and gritted her teeth with hatred for Barban; then:
“One—two—three!” Abe counted in a strained voice.
They fired at the same moment. McKisco swayed but recovered himself.
Both shots had missed.
“Now, that’s enough!” cried Abe.
The duellists walked in, and everyone looked at Barban inquiringly.
“I declare myself unsatisfied.”
“What?
Sure you’re satisfied,” said Abe impatiently.
“You just don’t know it.”
“Your man refuses another shot?”
“You’re damn right, Tommy.
You insisted on this and my client went through with it.”
Tommy laughed scornfully.
“The distance was ridiculous,” he said.
“I’m not accustomed to such farces—your man must remember he’s not now in America.”
“No use cracking at America,” said Abe rather sharply.
And then, in a more conciliatory tone,
“This has gone far enough, Tommy.”
They parleyed briskly for a moment—then Barban nodded and bowed coldly to his late antagonist.
“No shake hand?” suggested the French doctor.
“They already know each other,” said Abe.
He turned to McKisco.
“Come on, let’s get out.”
As they strode off, McKisco, in exultation, gripped his arm.
“Wait a minute!” Abe said.
“Tommy wants his pistol back.
He might need it again.”
McKisco handed it over.
“To hell with him,” he said in a tough voice.
“Tell him he can—”
“Shall I tell him you want another shot?”
“Well, I did it,” cried McKisco, as they went along.
“And I did it pretty well, didn’t I?
I wasn’t yellow.”
“You were pretty drunk,” said Abe bluntly.
“No, I wasn’t.”
“All right, then, you weren’t.”