to soothe him finally drove him mad, and he drew his revolver, declaring
he could look after himself, in proof of which he began to shoot out the
lights.

The men scrambled into safe corners, all but The Duke, who stood quietly
by watching Bruce shoot. Then saying:

"Let me have a try, Bruce," he reached across and caught his hand.

"No! you don't," said Bruce, struggling. "No man gets my gun."

He tore madly at the gripping hand with both of his, but in vain,
calling out with frightful oaths:

"Let go! let go! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

With a furious effort he hurled himself back from the table, dragging
The Duke partly across. There was a flash and a report and Bruce
collapsed, The Duke still gripping him. When they lifted him up he was
found to have an ugly wound in his arm, the bullet having passed through
the fleshy part. I bound it up as best I could and tried to persuade him
to go to bed. But he would go home. Nothing could stop him. Finally The
Duke agreed to go with him, and off they set, Bruce loudly protesting
that he could get home alone and did not want anyone.

It was a dismal break-up to the meet, and we all went home feeling
rather sick, so that it gave me no pleasure to find Moore waiting in my
shack for my report of Bruce. It was quite vain for me to make light of
the accident to him. His eyes were wide open with anxious fear when I
had done.