of result, grinning to himself as he did so, Sheldon raised his
automatic pistol and in two seconds sent eight shots scattering
through the trees in the direction in which Tudor had disappeared.
Wishing he had a shot-gun, Sheldon dropped to the ground behind a
tree, slipped a fresh clip up the hollow butt of the pistol, threw
a cartridge into the chamber, shoved the safety catch into place,
and reloaded the empty clip.
It was but a short time after that that Tudor tried the same trick
on him, the bullets pattering about him like spiteful rain,
thudding into the palm trunks, or glancing off in whining
ricochets. The last bullet of all, making a double ricochet from
two different trees and losing most of its momentum, struck Sheldon
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a sharp blow on the forehead and dropped at his feet. He was
partly stunned for the moment, but on investigation found no
greater harm than a nasty lump that soon rose to the size of a
pigeon’s egg.
The hunt went on. Once, coming to the edge of the grove near the
bungalow, he saw the house-boys and the cook, clustered on the back
veranda and peering curiously among the trees, talking and laughing
with one another in their queer falsetto voices. Another time he
came upon a working-gang busy at hoeing weeds. They scarcely
noticed him when he came up, though they knew thoroughly well what
was going on. It was no affair of theirs that the enigmatical
white men should be out trying to kill each other, and whatever
interest in the proceedings might be theirs they were careful to
conceal it from Sheldon. He ordered them to continue hoeing weeds
in a distant and out-of-the-way corner, and went on with the
pursuit of Tudor.
Tiring of the endless circling, Sheldon tried once more to advance
directly on his foe, but the latter was too crafty, taking
advantage of his boldness to fire a couple of shots at him, and
slipping away on some changed and continually changing course. For
an hour they dodged and turned and twisted back and forth and
around, and hunted each other among the orderly palms. They caught
fleeting glimpses of each other and chanced flying shots which were
without result. On a grassy shelter behind a tree, Sheldon came
upon where Tudor had rested and smoked a cigarette. The pressed
grass showed where he had sat. To one side lay the cigarette stump
and the charred match which had lighted it. In front lay a
scattering of bright metallic fragments. Sheldon recognized their
significance. Tudor was notching his steel-jacketed bullets, or
cutting them blunt, so that they would spread on striking–in
short, he was making them into the vicious dum-dum prohibited in
modern warfare. Sheldon knew now what would happen to him if a
bullet struck his body. It would leave a tiny hole where it
entered, but the hole where it emerged would be the size of a
saucer.
He decided to give up the pursuit, and lay down in the grass,
protected right and left by the row of palms, with on either hand
the long avenue extending. This he could watch. Tudor would have
to come to him or else there would be no termination of the affair.
He wiped the sweat from his face and tied the handkerchief around
his neck to keep off the stinging gnats that lurked in the grass.
Never had he felt so great a disgust for the thing called
“adventure.” Joan had been bad enough, with her Baden-Powell and
long-barrelled Colt’s; but here was this newcomer also looking for
adventure, and finding it in no other way than by lugging a peace-
loving planter into an absurd and preposterous bush-whacking duel.
If ever adventure was well damned, it was by Sheldon, sweating in
the windless grass and fighting gnats, the while he kept close
watch up and down the avenue.
Then Tudor came. Sheldon happened to be looking in his direction
at the moment he came into view, peering quickly up and down the
avenue before he stepped into the open. Midway he stopped, as if
debating what course to pursue. He made a splendid mark, facing
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his concealed enemy at two hundred yards’ distance. Sheldon aimed
at the centre of his chest, then deliberately shifted the aim to
his right shoulder, and, with the thought, “That will put him out
of business,” pulled the trigger. The bullet, driving with
momentum sufficient to perforate a man’s body a mile distant,
struck Tudor with such force as to pivot him, whirling him half
around by the shock of its impact and knocking him down.
“‘Hope I haven’t killed the beggar,” Sheldon muttered aloud,
springing to his feet and running forward.
A hundred feet away all anxiety on that score was relieved by
Tudor, who made shift with his left hand, and from his automatic
pistol hurled a rain of bullets all around Sheldon. The latter
dodged behind a palm trunk, counting the shots, and when the eighth
had been fired he rushed in on the wounded man. He kicked the
pistol out of the other’s hand, and then sat down on him in order
to keep him down.
“Be quiet,” he said. “I’ve got you, so there’s no use struggling.”
Tudor still attempted to struggle and to throw him off.
“Keep quiet, I tell you,” Sheldon commanded. “I’m satisfied with
the outcome, and you’ve got to be. So you might as well give in
and call this affair closed.”
Tudor reluctantly relaxed.
“Rather funny, isn’t it, these modern duels?” Sheldon grinned down
at him as he removed his weight. “Not a bit dignified. If you’d
struggled a moment longer I’d have rubbed your face in the earth.
I’ve a good mind to do it anyway, just to teach you that duelling
has gone out of fashion. Now let us see to your injuries.”
“You only got me that last,” Tudor grunted sullenly, “lying in
ambush like–”
“Like a wild Indian. Precisely. You’ve caught the idea, old man.”
Sheldon ceased his mocking and stood up. “You lie there quietly
until I send back some of the boys to carry you in. You’re not
seriously hurt, and it’s lucky for you I didn’t follow your
example. If you had been struck with one of your own bullets, a
carriage and pair would have been none too large to drive through
the hole it would have made. As it is, you’re drilled clean–a
nice little perforation. All you need is antiseptic washing and
dressing, and you’ll be around in a month. Now take it easy, and
I’ll send a stretcher for you.”
CHAPTER XXVIII–CAPITULATION
When Sheldon emerged from among the trees he found Joan waiting at
the compound gate, and he could not fail to see that she was
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146
visibly gladdened at the sight of him.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you,” was her greeting.
“What’s become of Tudor? That last flutter of the automatic wasn’t
nice to listen to. Was it you or Tudor?”
“So you know all about it,” he answered coolly. “Well, it was
Tudor, but he was doing it left-handed. He’s down with a hole in
his shoulder.” He looked at her keenly. “Disappointing, isn’t
it?” he drawled.
“How do you mean?”
“Why, that I didn’t kill him.”
“But I didn’t want him killed just because he kissed me,” she
cried.
“Oh, he did kiss you!” Sheldon retorted, in evident surprise. “I
thought you said he hurt your arm.”
“One could call it a kiss, though it was only on the end of the
nose.” She laughed at the recollection. “But I paid him back for
that myself. I boxed his face for him. And he did hurt my arm.
It’s black and blue. Look at it.”
She pulled up the loose sleeve of her blouse, and he saw the
bruised imprints of two fingers.
Just then a gang of blacks came out from among the trees carrying
the wounded man on a rough stretcher.
“Romantic, isn’t it?” Sheldon sneered, following Joan’s startled
gaze. “And now I’ll have to play surgeon and doctor him up.
Funny, this twentieth-century duelling. First you drill a hole in
a man, and next you set about plugging the hole up.”
They had stepped aside to let the stretcher pass, and Tudor, who
had heard the remark, lifted himself up on the elbow of his sound
arm and said with a defiant grin, –
“If you’d got one of mine you’d have had to plug with a dinner-
plate.”
“Oh, you wretch!” Joan cried. “You’ve been cutting your bullets.”
“It was according to agreement,” Tudor answered. “Everything went.
We could have used dynamite if we wanted to.”
“He’s right,” Sheldon assured her, as they swung in behind. “Any
weapon was permissible. I lay in the grass where he couldn’t see
me, and bushwhacked him in truly noble fashion. That’s what comes