"I tell you C-Chichester, it will be either him or m-me!"
"If he--condescends to fight you, my dear Ronald."
"C-condescend?" cried Barrymaine, and it needed but a glance at his
flushed cheek and swaying figure to see that he had been drinking
more heavily than usual. "C-condescend, damn his insolence!
Condescend, will he? I'll give him no chance for his c-cursed
condescension, I--I tell you, Chichester, I'll--"
"But you can't make a man fight, Ronald."
"Can't I? Why then if he won't fight I'll--"
"Hush! don't speak so loud!"
"Well, I will, Chichester,--s-so help me God, I will!"
"Will--what, Ronald?"
"W-wait and see!"
"You don't mean--murder, Ronald?"
"I didn't s-say so, d-did I?"
"Of course not, my dear Barrymaine, but--shall I take the pistols?"
And Mr. Chichester stretched out his hand towards a flat, oblong box
that Barrymaine carried clutched beneath his arm. "Better give them
to me, Ronald."
"No,--w-why should I?"
"Well,--in your present mood--"
"I--I'm not--d-drunk,--damme, I'm not, I tell you! And I'll give
the f-fellow every chance--honorable meeting."
"Then, if he refuses to fight you, as of course he will, you'll let
him go to--ah--make love to Cleone?"
"No, by God!" cried Barrymaine in a sudden, wild fury, "I-I'll
sh-shoot him first!"
"Kill him?"
"Yes, k-kill him!"
"Oh no you won't, Ronald, for two reasons.
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