ke care of myself," said the man, angrily, "whether I'm broke
or not, and I don't want any of your interference." He shot a quick
glance at Poleon Doret, but the Frenchman's face was like wood, and his
hand still held the neck of the whiskey bottle he had set out for the
stranger before the others entered. Gale leaned against the opposite
counter, his countenance inert but for the eyes, which were fixed upon
the Lieutenant.

"Come," said the officer, peremptorily, "I have heard all about you,
and you are not the kind of citizen we want here, but if you have
enough money for an outfit I can't send you away. If you haven't--"

"I'm broke," said the man, but at the note in his voice Poleon Doret's
muscles tightened, and Burrell, who also read a sinister message in the
tone, slid his heavy service revolver from its holster beneath his coat.

He had never done this thing before, and it galled him. He had never
drawn a weapon on a man, and this playing at policeman became suddenly
most repugnant, stirring in him the uncomfortable feeling that he was
doing a mean thing, and not only a mean thing, but one of which he
ought to be heartily ashamed. He felt decidedly amateurish, especially
when he saw that the man apparently intended no resistance and made no
move. However, he was in for it now, and must end as he had begun.

"Give me your gun," he said; "I'll unload it and give it back to you at
the gang-plank."

"All right, you've got the upper hand," said the man through lips that
had gone white. Drawing his weapon from beneath his vest, he presented
it to the officer, butt foremost, hammer underneath. The cylinder
reposed naturally in the palm of his hand, and the tip of his
forefinger was thrust through the trigger-guard.

Burrell lowered the barrel of his revolver and put out his left hand
for the other's weapon. Suddenly the man's wrist jerked, the soldier
saw a blue flicker of sunlight on the steel as it whirled, saw the arm
of Poleon Doret fling itself across the bar with the speed of a
striking serpent, heard a smash of breaking glass, felt the shock of a
concussion, and the spatter of some liquid in his face. Then he saw the
man's revolver on the floor half-way across the room, saw fragments of
glass with it, and saw the fellow step backward, snatching at the
fingers of his right hand. A smell of powder-smoke and rank whiskey was
in the air.

There are times when a man's hand will act more swiftly than his
tongu