Thus pinioned, both stand ready for the trial.
“Who goes first?” is the question asked by Slaughter. “The challenger, or the challenged?”
“The challenged has the choice,” answers Randall. “Do you wish it, Choc?” he adds, addressing himself to the quarter-bred Indian.
“It makes no difference to me whether first or last,” is the simple reply.
“All right, then; I’ll go first,” says Brandon, springing up, and clutching hold of the limb.
Slaughter, entrusted with the duty, appears to take note of the time.
One—two—three—three minutes and thirty seconds—told off on the dial of his watch, and Brandon drops to the ground.
He does not appear to have made much of an effort. It is strange he should be so indifferent to the losing of a splendid rifle, to say nothing of the humiliation of defeat.
Both seem in store for him, as the young hunter, bracing himself to the effort, springs up to the branch.
One—two—three—four—five. Five minutes are told off, and still does he remain suspended.