“And give us a little light.”
“Outside,” suggested the saloon-keeper.
“We’re not advertising patent medicine,” blazed Ichabod, and the lamps were lit immediately.
Once more the long-visaged man appealed to the group lined up now against the bar.
“Gentlemen––I never carried a revolver a half-hour in my life. Is it any more than fair that I name the details?”
“Name ’m and be quick,” acquiesced his big opponent before the others could speak.
“Thanks, Mr. Duggin,” with equal swiftness. “These, then, are the conditions.” For three seconds, that seemed a minute, Ichabod looked steadily between his adversary’s bushy eyebrows. “The conditions,” he repeated, “are, that starting from opposite ends of the room, we don’t fire until our toes touch in the middle line.” 193
“Good!” commended a voice; but it was not big Duggin who spoke.
“I’ll see that it’s done, too,”––added a listening cattleman, grasping Ichabod by the hand.
“And I.”