Twiggs. Quite right! We’ll have none of them. They are perfectly absurd! Fit only for niggros. Nothing like hair triggers. (Steps toward C.) Has any gentleman a brace of pistols? I think I can arrange all to the satisfaction of the company.
Spratt. (Comes down C.) I brought a pair for alternatives. (Produces them from case.)
Twiggs. Ah, beauties!
Tick. I object to hair triggers!
Twiggs. On what grounds, sir?
Tick. They might go off.
Twiggs. A frivolous objection, sir! You owe Mr. Topp satisfaction. Your position is absurd, and let me say, sir, subjects you to suspicion; yes sir, to suspicion of cowardice!
Tick. (Comes toward them, C., blusters.) I’m no coward, mind that! (Aside.) This is serious. (Aside to Twiggs.) I don’t want to fight.
Twiggs. (In a friendly manner.) Don’t want to fight? What are your reasons?
Tick. I might get hurt!