"There's only one way to stop me," Tudor went on. "I can't insult you
directly, I know. You are too easy-going, or cowardly, or both, for
that. But I can narrate for you the talk of the beach--ah, that grinds
you, doesn't it? I can tell you what the beach has to say about you and
this young girl running a plantation under a business partnership."
"Stop!" Sheldon cried, for the other was beginning to vibrate and
oscillate before his eyes. "You want a duel. I'll give it to you." Then
his common-sense and dislike for the ridiculous asserted themselves, and
he added, "But it's absurd, impossible."
"Joan and David--partners, eh? Joan and David--partners," Tudor began to
iterate and reiterate in a malicious and scornful chant.
"For heaven's sake keep quiet, and I'll let you have your way," Sheldon
cried. "I never saw a fool so bent on his folly. What kind of a duel
shall it be? There are no seconds. What weapons shall we use?"
Immediately Tudor's monkey-like impishness left him, and he was once more
the cool, self-possessed man of the world.
"I've often thought that the ideal duel should be somewhat different from
the conventional one," he said. "I've fought several of that sort, you
know--"
"French ones," Sheldon interrupted.
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