The principals now stood back to back. Each was to take twenty paces forward—Jack had refused to make the distance any closer—turn and lire when ready.
"Ready, go!" came Jack's voice, and slowly the two started away from each other.
"Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—" counted Frank, and at that instant there was a sound of a shot and a bullet whistled over his head, grazing the scalp.
Stanley, nervous because of the lad's coolness, had fired at the count of nineteen.
"Twenty!" said Frank without a sign of nervousness in his voice. He turned slowly, and aimed his revolver at the ground in front of him.
Very slowly he raised the barrel of his weapon until it pointed at the knees of his now shaking antagonist, then to his belt, to his chest, and finally to his head.
Beads of perspiration stood out on Stanley's forehead. Then, with a quick movement, Frank raised the muzzle of his weapon still higher, and fired over Stanley's head.
Then he calmly replaced the weapon in his pocket and walked back to where Jack was standing.
Having thus escaped what appeared almost certain death, Stanley became bold again. Evidently he had not realized that Frank had missed purposely.
"I demand another shot," he cried angrily.