He spoke a curt order in his own tongue, and each man whipped a pistol from his clothes.
"Seven to two," he said, and laughed again; "maybe it iss that Herr Harkness would like to count them.
"Your ship and your supplies!" he exclaimed scornfully. "And you would be so kind as to giff us food.
"Gott im Himmel!" he shouted; "I show you! I am talking now! We stay here—ja—because this Dummkopf has the controls gebrochen! But it iss we who stay; und you? You go, because I say so. It iss I who rule, und I prove it—seven to two!"
"Three!" a firm voice spoke from between Chet and Harkness; "seven to three! Our odds are improving, Herr Schwartzmann."
And Chet saw from the corner of his eye that the gun in the small hand of Mademoiselle Diane was entirely unwavering. But he spoke to her sharply, and his voice merged with that of Harkness who was saying somewhat the same words:
"Back—go back, Diane! We can handle this. For God's sake, keep out; we don't want any shooting."
Neither of the men had drawn his gun. Their hands were ready, but each had hoped to end this weird conference without firing a shot. Here was no place for gun-play and for wounded men.
Their attention was on Diane for the moment. A growled word from their enemy brought their minds back to him; they turned to find black pistol muzzles staring each of them in the eyes. Herr Schwartzmann, in the language of an earlier day, had got the drop.