“Abby, I’m sorry that you take this view.”
“I don’t care to hear any platitudes, thank you.”
“I’ll look you up to-morrow, and on my part I sha’n’t ask for any apology. In a little while you’ll thank me. You will even laugh with me.”
“Permit me to doubt that,” angrily. He threw open the door.
Courtlandt was too wise to argue further. He had obtained the object of his errand, and that was enough for the present. “Sorry you are not open to reason. Good morning.”
When the door closed, Abbott tramped the floor and vented his temper on the much abused footstool, which he kicked whenever it came in the line of his march. In his soul he knew that Courtlandt was right. More than that, he knew that presently he would seek him and apologize.
Unfortunately, neither of them counted on the colonel.
Without being quite conscious of the act, Abbott took down from the wall an ancient dueling-pistol, cocked it, snapped it, and looked it over with an interest that he had never before bestowed on it. And the colonel, bursting into the studio, found him absorbed in the contemplation of this old death-dealing instrument.
“Ha!” roared the old war dog. “Had an idea that something like this was going to happen. Put that up. You couldn’t kill anything with that unless you hit ’em on the head with it. Leave the matter to me. I’ve a pair of pistols, sighted to hit a shilling at twenty yards. Of course, you can’t fight him with swords. He’s one of the best in all Italy. But you’ve just as good a chance as he has with pistols. Nine times out of ten the tyro hits the bull’s-eye, while the crack goes wild. Just you sit jolly tight. Who’s his second; Courtlandt?”
“Yes.” Abbott was truly and completely bewildered.