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A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. “Oh, damn!” he said. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Was the girl seriously expecting him to pull the trigger? Lord, but she had courage! ‘Shoot, then,’ urged the lady. Her greatest exploit was the howling before the mid-day meal. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control.
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