Harry was coming towards him, to conduct him to his position. Sir Gavin was holding the pistols by their barrels; Jack took one in his right hand, and stood with it pointing downwards, his body turned sideways from his adversary.

Sir Gavin gave Harry the second pistol. He saw that it was cocked, and took it carefully, thankful to see that his hand was quite steady. He listened to what Sir Gavin was saying, about dropping his handkerchief, and nodded. Then Sir Gavin and Harry both stepped back, and he was looking straight at Jack, across, as it seemed to him, a vast stretch of greensward.

The handkerchief was fluttering aloft in the light breeze; it dropped, and Tom deliberately fired high in the air. His eyes were fixed on Jack, and even before he realized that his weapon had misfired he saw Jack’s hand jerk up, so that his gun too pointed skywards. Only Jack didn’t even take the trouble to pull the trigger, apparently, for nothing happened—not even a flash in the pan. Suddenly Tom was indignant with Jack for behaving in this heroic style, and he flung down his pistol, and strode forward, exclaiming: ‘What the devil do you mean by that? Shoot, damn you! Deloping—not even pulling the trigger—!’

‘I did pull the trigger!’ Jack retorted. ‘The curst piece misfired! It was you who didn’t shoot! You crazy fool, I might have killed you!’

‘You aimed in the air!’ said Tom. ‘Serve you right if I had killed you! I won’t have it! Damn it, it’s insulting!’

‘So did you fire in the air!’ Jack flung at him. ‘And you might as well have aimed at me, because you couldn’t hit a barn at twenty-five yards!’