stamped out of the hall into the street.

Harriet ran between Westerfelt and the door. She put her hands on his
shoulders and looked at him beseechingly. "Don't go out there," she
pleaded; "stay here and let him cool off; he is drinking! He's a
dangerous man."

He took her hands and held them for an instant and then dropped them.
"I'm afraid he's been humored too much," he smiled. "I'd never have
any respect for myself if I was to back down now. I've known his kind
to be cured by a good, sound thrashing, when nothing else would do any
good."

She raised her hands again, but he avoided her gently and went out into
the street. Wambush stood on the sidewalk a few yards from the door,
one booted foot on the curbstone, the other on the ground. He had
thrown his broad-brimmed hat on the ground, and tossed his long hair
back over his shoulders. His left hand rested on his raised knee, his
right was in the pocket of his short coat.

"Come on, if you ain't too weak-kneed," he jeered, as Westerfelt
appeared on the veranda.

Westerfelt advanced towards Wambush, but when he was within a few feet
of him, Wambush suddenly drew a revolver, cocked it, and deliberately
raised it. Westerfelt stopped and looked straight into Wambush's eyes.

"I'm unarmed," said he; "I never carry a pistol; is that the way you do
your fighting?"