“Be a good way to take revenge on somebody,” said Velo.
“Why you—” Zaidos could not finish. “How the deuce do you ever think up such stuff? For goodness’ sake, don’t say it to me! You make me sick!” He bent over his patient again, and Velo looked idly about.
At his feet lay a revolver. He picked it up. It was loaded. Idly he tried the trigger. It worked. He looked at Zaidos. How he hated him! They seemed all alone on that field of dead and dying. The tide had swept away and left them there with their work.
There was a sudden red mist over Velo’s sight.... Kneeling in the light of the big flashlight, Zaidos loomed up, a clear, clean cut figure with the velvet blackness of the night behind him. Velo brushed his hand before his eyes. Zaidos was putting the last pin in the neat dressing he had applied to the wound. There was a thread of hope for the man. Zaidos smiled. Velo knew he would get up—
The revolver sounded like a cannon. Zaidos, unhurt, got to his feet. He pressed a hand to his side. Velo watched him with fascinated eyes. Zaidos looked down. There was a cut across the service blouse between his sleeve and body, right under his left arm.
Zaidos stared first at Velo, then at the revolver still in his hand.
“How did that happen?” he demanded in a low, tense voice.
Velo swallowed and cleared his throat.
“The thing went off,” he said huskily.
“Well, it came near doing for me,” said Zaidos, still staring suspiciously at Velo. “You let me have that revolver! You are too funny with things to suit me.”