So the party of
four marched up the stairs. You will believe that Harry liked the
business ill enough. He shot glances at the two chosen for seconds. There
was nothing sottish about them. They were very soberly alert, they had
the tan and the vigour of open-air life. They looked anything but the fit
comrades for a swashbuckling tavern hero. They were as stiff as pokers,
they said not a word, they showed not a sign of interest in the
affair--rather like two soldiers on guard than ready seconds in a drunken
brawl. Once in the upper room they made their arrangements with solemn
care, locking the door, clearing a sufficient space, and setting the
candles so that the light fell fairly. Harry was taken aside, helped out
of his coat, asked if he needed anything, gravely advised to risk nothing
and play close.
"We are at your service, Mr. O'Connor," says Donald.
"At your pleasure, Mr. Mackenzie," says the other.
Harry was set against the little man and the swords crossed. It then
occurred to him that the little man was very suddenly recovered from his
liquor. The blustering chatter had been cut off as soon as they started
up the stairs. Since then the little man had spoken not one word. Of the
unsteadiness, the blinking, the rocking to and fro, nothing remained.
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