But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent’s back. His attitude relaxed and his mouth began twitching. Then he burst into a peal of laughter.
“Pete,” he roared, “drop that and come out from there!” and away he went into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had levelled at Bob Lee.
“What were you going to do with that gun levelled at me?” asked Lee, his own face twitching.
“I was gwine to fiah jes’ befo’ dey said free. I wa’n’t gwine to kill you, Mas’ Bob. I was on’y gwine to lame you.”
Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending statement.
“You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I’d give you a hundred lashes.”
“Pete,” said his master, “don’t you know that it is dishonourable to shoot a man from behind? You see you haven’t in you the making of a gentleman.”
“I do’ know nuffin’ ’bout mekin’ a gent’man, but I does know how to save one dat’s already made.”
The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.
“Gentlemen,” said Randolph, “we have been saved by a miracle. This old gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded for the past twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would have torn up all of this part of the county.” Then the eyes of the two combatants met. There was something irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and they found themselves roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they shook hands without a word.