“It's as good as new,” he said. “What do you want for it?”
“I will not sell it,” replied the trader coldly, eyeing the beachcomber steadily, “at least to no one in Ponapé. There is too free a display of and use of arms here as it is,” and he looked pointedly at the brace of heavy Colt's revolvers in his visitor's belt.
A scowl darkened Larmer's face. “I'll give you a hundred dollars for the thing,” he said. “I want it, and I mean to have it” And he rose and dashed his huge hand down upon the table.
Challoner was unarmed, but his face betrayed neither fear nor any other emotion. He was standing with his back to the doorway of his bedroom. A thick curtain of navy blue calico concealed the interior of this room from the view of any one in the living room, and Larmer had seen no one but the trader about.
For some few seconds there was silence; the beachcomber, with his clenched fist still on the table, was trying to discover whether the man before him was intimidated. Challoner stood unmoved.
“Yes,” began Larmer again, “I want that cannon. Sru, the chief of Kiti, an' me is going on a little war-party again. But I'll pay you for it.”
“And I tell you that I won't sell it. Least of all to a man like you, who would use it for murder.”
The beachcomber's hand went to his belt—and stayed there, as the trader stepped aside from the doorway and he saw a rifle pointed at his heart. It was held by the trader's wife.
“Put up your hands,” said Challoner, with a contemptuous laugh. “And now listen to me. I want no quarrel with you—don't force one on me. Now clear out.”
Without a word the baffled man turned away. But the look of savage hatred that gleamed in his fierce eyes told Challoner that he had made a dangerous enemy. And only a few days passed before he heard from the natives that Larmer said he would have his revenge—and the brass gun as well—before many months were over.