“What's the matter with you, Rafe?” demanded the gambler, in a half-coaxing tone.
“Nothing,” Bodson assured him calmly, “except that I'm going to blow your head off if you aren't down on your knees before I've counted three! One—two—th—”
Duff dropped to his knees, holding his hands high in air.
“Now apologize for calling us traitors,” admonished Rafe. “Do it handsomely, too, while you're about it.”
“Rafe,” protested Jim Duff, “you, know that I said what I did only because I was angry. I know you're a gentleman, and you know that I know it. If I've hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, a thousand times over.”
“Jim, you're a good deal of a sneak, aren't you?” inquired Rafe, in a voice that sounded pleasant enough, but which carried a warning in its tone.
“Yes,” Duff admitted. “I guess I'm a good deal of a sneak.”
“Get up on your feet, then. We understand one another,” said Bodson. “Go ahead, if you want to, and carry out your plans for a merry evening. But don't make the mistake of calling ugly names again, and don't forget all you've said about the square deal. Hang these tenderfeet, if that's what you want to do, but don't hit men without first giving them a chance to hit back.”
Duff, shaking partly from fear, though more from a sense of his humiliation, rose to his feet. For a moment he stood choking down his varied emotions. Then, with an attempt at his old-time, suave banter, he inquired:
“Are you young gentlemen ready for the collar and neck-tie party that we've planned to give you?”