After each of the combatants had been armed with one of the captain’s pistols, the doctor measured fifteen paces. The coin was spun into the air. Mac won the toss, and took up his position, as did Goodhew.
‘Captain,’ said Goodhew, ‘if—if I fall, you’ll find a memorandum as to the disposition of my property in a tin box in my cabin. Here’s the key.’
‘At the word Three,’ said the captain, ‘Mr MacWhirter will fire.’
Mac raised his pistol, half closed his left eye, and took aim.
‘One! Two! Three!’
He fired. Goodhew, with a cry, pressed his hands to his head, and then fell like a stone with one deep groan. The red stain on the right temple told Mac the fatal truth. The Irishman’s vaunts and threats had been justified.
‘You’ve done it, Mac!’ whispered the captain in a voice of agony. ‘Come away as fast as you can. The doctor will attend to the poor fellow, if life still remains.’
And so Mac and the captain hastened away, leaving Goodhew on the ground, with us gathered around him.
As we were to shift over to the smaller steamer which was to convey us to Yokohama the next day, and were to bid farewell to Mrs Fuller and the captain and the old Sicilia, the banquet that evening was of an unusually lavish description: the champagne went merrily round with jest and gibe, as if there had never been such a being as poor Goodhew in existence. Even Mac aroused himself after a few glasses, although at first he was rather solemn, and remarked: ‘Ye’re a rum lot, all of ye. If oi’d been killed instead of Mister Goodhew, ye’d have enjoyed your dinner and drink all the same. Oi’m sorry for him; but it’ll be a lesson to Sassenachs not to insult Oirishmen.’