“How’s that, Brander?” said he.
“A ruse,” said the other coolly. “I have more tricks to my philosophy of persuasion than you have methods to your villainy.”
“My style suits my company best, I think. You acknowledge you tried to treat, then?”
“And do you look to my condescension to deny or explain?”
There had been murmurs at the door; and, upon this: “He’s lying!” cried a voice.
Mr. Brander was a man of few superfluities—a born director of others. This was because he never let an occasion over-ripen, but plucked his fruit before it fell. He had been quite prepared before the threatening utterance, and with the echo of it he wheeled about and fired his pistol with unerring aim into the thick of the group.
On the clap of the shot broke a loud hiccough—as if the bullet had pierced a wind-bag—and a fellow pitched forward on the threshold and bled silently on the floor.
“That’s my bird,” said the sportsman.
He strode to the door, the company stumbling and retreating before him.
“I’ve the other barrel,” he said. “Does any one want it?”