Stuart broke into a laugh and sat down on the edge of the bed, deliberately fixing him with a contemptuous look.
"Well, of all the gall I've ever encountered—did you say dare to me? What do you take me for, one of your servants? If you weren't sick I'd slap you."
"You'd better not try it," the little man growled.
"Oh, come now. Bivens, this is too ridiculous, a quarrel the first day of our shooting. But you'll have to get one thing fixed in your head once for all; you don't run the entire world. The telephone, telegraph and mail service have been suspended. The Buccaneer has put to sea for New York. You're on a little eighty-foot schooner, anchored in a bay ten miles wide and a hundred-miles long and I'm in command. I won't stand any nonsense from you. Come down off your perch, quick!"
Bivens started to swear, caught the expression of Stuart's face and suddenly extended his hand.
"I'm sorry, Jim; you must not mind my foolishness. I've had the temper of the devil the last few months, and I'm used to making everybody hop when I get mad. I guess I'm spoiled. Forget it, old boy, go ahead and have a good time by yourself to-day. I'm out of sorts from that sea-sickness. You don't mind what I said?"
"No," Stuart slowly answered, "but don't do it again."
"I won't. It was awfully nice of you to come. I'll stay in to-day, but you go and get some ducks for dinner, like a good boy, and say—take Nan along and teach her to shoot. It's getting to be the rage among the high-flyers for the women to shoot."
"Please do, Jim!" Nan cried from the door. She had listened outside to the duel in the stateroom.
"All right," he answered, gaily, "quick about it. You've got a rig?"