"Abby, I'm sorry that you take this view."

"I don't care to hear any platitudes, thank you."

"I'll look you up to-morrow, and on my part I sha'n't ask for any apology.

In a little while you'll thank me. You will even laugh with me."

"Permit me to doubt that," angrily. He threw open the door.

Courtlandt was too wise to argue further. He had obtained the object of

his errand, and that was enough for the present. "Sorry you are not open

to reason. Good morning."

When the door closed, Abbott tramped the floor and vented his temper on

the much abused footstool, which he kicked whenever it came in the line of

his march. In his soul he knew that Courtlandt was right. More than that,

he knew that presently he would seek him and apologize.

Unfortunately, neither of them counted on the colonel.

Without being quite conscious of the act, Abbott took down from the wall

an ancient dueling-pistol, cocked it, snapped it, and looked it over with

an interest that he had never before bestowed on it. And the colonel,

bursting into the studio, found him absorbed in the contemplation of this

old death-dealing instrument.

"Ha!" roared the old war dog. "Had an idea that something like this was

going to happen. Put that up. You couldn't kill anything with that unless

you hit 'em on the head with it. Leave the matter to me. I've a pair of

pistols, sighted to hit a shilling at twenty yards. Of course, you can't

fight him with swords. He's one of the best in all Italy. But you've just

as good a chance as he has with pistols. Nine times out of ten the tyro

hits the bull's-eye, while the crack goes wild. Just you sit jolly tight.

Who's his second; Courtlandt?"

"Yes." Abbott was truly and completely bewildered.

"He struck you first, I understand, and you knocked him down. Good! My

tennis-courts are out of the way. We can settle this matter to-morrow

morning at dawn. Ellicott will come over from Cadenabbia with his saws.

He's close-mouthed. All you need to do is to keep quiet. You can spend the

night at the villa with me, and I'll give you a few ideas about shooting a

pistol. Here; write what I dictate." He pushed Abbott over to the desk and

forced him into the chair. Abbott wrote mechanically, as one hypnotized.

The colonel seized the letter. "No flowery sentences; a few words bang at

the mark. Come up to the villa as soon as you can. We'll jolly well cool

this Italian's blood."

And out he went, banging the door. There was something of the directness

of a bullet in the old fellow's methods.

Literally, Abbott had been rushed off his feet. The moment his confusion

cleared he saw the predicament into which his own stupidity and the

amiable colonel's impetuous good offices had plunged him. He was

horrified. Here was Courtlandt carrying the apology, and hot on his heels

was the colonel, with the final arrangements for the meeting. He ran to

the door, bareheaded, took the stairs three and four at a bound. But the

energetic Anglo-Indian had gone down in bounds also; and when the

distracted artist reached the street, the other was nowhere to be seen.

Apparently there was nothing left but to send another apology. Rather than

perform so shameful and cowardly an act he would have cut off his hand.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024