he cafe, the Storm Centre pushed the argument of
shoulders, and quickly gained for himself the place which his pseudonym
indicated. Then he stopped, and looked puzzled. Which side to take? The
French, being outnumbered, offered the larger contract.

"What's the row?" Driscoll inquired of Ney. But he was ignored. "Might
answer," he suggested insidiously, "for it's only a toss-up anyhow which
way I enlist. Look here, Sky-Blue, if you don't understand Spanish, just
say so, and tell me why you don't start the game."

Ney shoved him aside impatiently, but he calmly stepped back again.

"Come now," he argued plaintively, "let me in, don't be selfish?
But--goodness gracious, man, why don't you draw your gun?"

"Because, my good fellow, I haven't any."

The mystery cleared at once, for now Driscoll understood the strategic
outlay. Its key was Fra Diavolo, with a pistol at Ney's head, and quite
statuesque the romantic Mexican looked. But out of the tail of his eye
Fra Diavolo noted the American, at first with contemptuous amusement
only. Then, as though such had been the situation from the start, he
grew aware of an ugly black muzzle under his chin. For very safety he
froze rigid, and dared not turn his own weapon from Ney to his new
aggressor. But he wondered how the ugly black muzzle came there. He had
not seen the American move. But for those who did see, the action seemed
deliberate, with no hint of the actual panther-like turn of the wrist
from the waist outward.

With his left hand Driscoll next drew forth the second of the brace, and
held it out to Ney in his palm. The Chasseur seized the weapon joyfully.
He straightened as the humiliation of a disarmed soldier fell from him.
But at once his face clouded, and with an oath he handed back the
navy-six.

"W'y, what's the matter?" asked Driscoll.

"You are trifling, man. That thing has no trigger."

Much as an artisan would explain the peculiarities of a favorite tool,
Driscoll said, "Now look here, you strip it--this way--so."

And as he explained, he illustrated. He raised the hammer under his
thumb, he released it on the cartridge, and Fra Diavolo's sombrero flew
off.

Fra Diavolo threw up his hand involuntarily, and there was a second
report. Fra Diavolo's pistol twisted out of his grasp. The brace of
navies had not gone higher than the American's waist.

"So," Driscoll concluded.

At the same moment one of the sailors, a bullet-headed lad of Normandy,
was