“Herr Schwatka,” said the doctor, slowly, “there will be no quarrel. It takes two to make one, and I shall not be a party. I merely say, that long play, and high play, tends to mar friendship, and we cannot afford to be other than friends.”
“Dr Fox, I regret that I have met a card sharper, instead of a gentleman,” cried the major, choking with rage.
“Major, do not lose your temper so cheaply. Name your loss and I will return the sum to you.”
The brow of Kildare clouded as black as night, and he fiercely exclaimed:
“Do you mean to insult me, sir? I am no beggar to ask alms. You add insult to injury, and shall answer for it.”
He and Schwatka had risen to their feet during this heated colloquy. The doctor alone remained seated.
Leaning his arm on the table he said, in a low and firm voice:
“Major, you and I cannot afford to fight. All know you are a brave man. Your courage, as the world interprets that sentiment, no one would question.”
The quiet, unimpassioned tone of Dr Fox seemed to subdue the fiery major, who resumed his seat as the doctor proceeded: “My definition of the word ‘courage’ differs widely from the general acceptation of its meaning. Why does the commander of a regiment rush to the front, and lead his men to the charge? Paradoxical as it may seem, fear, fear is the impelling force; fear lest he be thought a coward. I have looked down the barrel of a shot-gun, in a country where men go gunning for men, as you do for chance hits at fledgelings at the game of poker.”
Here the doctor rose, and proceeded to the sideboard; as he mixed a drink, he continued: