"Sho! It ain't hard, when you learn the steps."
"I ain't going to have nothing to do with it. Tommyrot! That's what I call it."
"Don't say it so loud, Steve, or you'll hurt Mr. Ainsa's feelings," chided his partner.
"Think I'm going to make a monkey of myself at my age?"
Dick turned mournfully to the messenger of war.
"I'm afraid it's off, Mr. Ainsa. My second says he won't play."
"We shall be very glad to furnish you a second, sir."
"All right, and while you're at it furnish a principal, too. I'm an American. I write my address Cripple Creek, Colorado, U.S.A. We don't fight duels in my country any more. They've gone out with buckled shoes and knee-pants, Mr. Ainsa."
"Do I understand that Mr. Gordon declines to meet my friend on the field of honor?"
"That's the size of it."
"I am then instruct' to warn you to go armed, as my friend will punish your insolence at sight informally."
It was just at this moment that Mrs. Corbett, flushed with the vain chase of her fleeing brood of chickens, came perspiring round the house. Her large, round person, not designed by nature for such arduous exercise, showed signs of fatigue.
"I declare, if them chickens ain't got out, and me wanting two for supper," she panted, arms on her ample hips.
"That's too bad. Let me chase them," volunteered Dick.
He grasped his rifle, took a quick, careless aim, and fired. A long-legged, flying cockerel keeled over and began to kick.
"Gracious me!" ejaculated the woman.
"Two, did you say?" asked the man behind the gun.
"I said two."
Again the rifle cracked. A second chicken flopped down, this one with its head shot off at the neck.
The eyes of the minister of war were large with amazement. The distance had been seventy yards, if it had been a step. When little Jimmie Corbett came running forward with the two dead cockerels a slight examination showed that the first had also been shot through the neck.
Dick smiled.
"Shall I shoot another and send it for a present to Don Manuel, Jimmie?" he pleasantly inquired.
Mr. Ainsa met his persiflage promptly.
"I do assure you, señor, it will not be at all necesair. Don Manuel can shoot chickens for himself--and larger game."
"I'm sure he'll find good hunting," the other gave him back, looking up genially.
"He is a good hunter, señor."
"Don't doubt it a bit," granted the cordial Anglo-Saxon. "Trouble is that even the best hunters can't tell whether they are going to bring back the bear, or Mr. Bear is going to get them. That's what makes it exciting, I reckon."