"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 of having
women on the plantation. And now it's antiseptics and drainage tubes, I
suppose. It's a nasty mess, and I'll have to read up on it before I
tackle the job."
"I don't see that it's my fault," she began. "I couldn't help it because
he kissed me. I never dreamed he would attempt it."
"We didn't fight for that reason. But there isn't time to explain. If
you'll get dressings and bandages ready I'll look up 'gun-shot wounds'
and see what's to be done.
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