"What does he say now?" asked O'Leary.
"Twenty-four paces for the distance."
"Twenty-four of my teeth he means," said O'Leary, snapping his fingers. "What does he think of the length of Sackville-street? Ask him that, will ye?"
"What says Monsieur?" said the Frenchman.
"He thinks the distance much too great."
"He may be mistaken," said the Captain, half sneeringly. "My friend is 'de la premiere force.'"
"That must be something impudent, from your looks, Mr. Trevanion. Isn't it a thousand pities I can't speak French?"
"What say you, then, to twelve paces? Fire together, and two shots each, if the first fire be inconclusive," said Trevanion.
"And if necessary," added the Frenchman, carelessly, "conclude with these"—touching the swords with his foot as he spoke.
"The choice of the weapon lies with us, I opine," replied Trevanion. "We have already named pistols, and by them we shall decide this matter."