It was then that Billy Gresham broke through the bushes and interposed.
Billy was a recognized “character.” He was a phenomenal egotist, but he rarely used the first personal pronoun singular. Instead of saying “I” or “me,” he usually said “William.” But he said it with an unctuousness and appreciation of its significance that cannot be described in words.
Also Billy Gresham always did what he pleased, without a thought of having to give an account of his conduct to anybody. His extraordinary loquacity was a perfect safeguard against any possible challenge of resentment. He could talk anybody down and close the conversation at his own sweet will. The worst that his adversary could do was to laugh at him, and Billy didn’t mind that in the least. He regarded it rather as a grateful tribute to his humor.
Just as the two men crossed swords, Billy broke through the bushes, and interposed his blade—with a very good imitation of stage heroism—between the combatants. Then, with all the authority of an expert in a matter he knew nothing about, he proceeded to lay down laws of his own extemporaneous invention for the governance of single combat.
“Stop, gentlemen!” he cried out. Then, laying his sword on the ground between them, he said: “You must not cross my sword with yours, gentlemen. To do that would be to put an affront upon William which only blood could efface, and it must be the blood of the offender—not the gore of private William Gresham.”
The two men had come to a pause, of course. Equally of course, they were smiling at the ridiculousness of Billy Gresham’s interference and the absurdity of his chatter.
Still their purpose to fight remained in undiminished intensity. Seeing this, Billy resumed his talk.
“If you are determined to fight,” he said, “you can do so. Far be it from William to interrupt a prearranged engagement for mutual dissection between two of his friends. But William always likes to have a little money up on the probabilities.”
Then pulling out a pocket-book, which was fat with humorous newspaper clippings, but which both men knew to contain nothing more valuable, he caressed it lovingly and said: “Before you proceed, William wants to bet one hundred dollars to ten with one or both of you—you can make it a thousand dollars to a hundred, if you prefer—that neither of you two sublimated idiots can give William a reasonable excuse for this quarrel. Come now, before you enter upon the business of mutual slaughter, make a bet that will provide in some degree for the loved ones dependent on you.”
By that time both men were laughing, for, after all, their quarrel was a trifling one. They would not have quarrelled at all if the intensity of the nervous strain put upon them by the war had been relieved by active duty.