A loud report, and the room
was full of smoke.
Steinmetz placed one hand on the table and, despite his weight, vaulted
it cleanly. This man had taken his degree at Heidelberg, and the Germans
are the finest gymnasts in the world. Moreover, muscle, once made,
remains till death. It was his only chance, for the Frenchman had dodged
the novel, but it spoiled his aim. Steinmetz vaulted right on to him,
and De Chauxville staggered back.
In a moment Steinmetz had him by the collar; his face was gray, his
heavy eyes ablaze. If any thing will rouse a man, it is being fired at
point-blank at a range of four yards with a .280 revolver.
"Ach!" gasped the German; "you would shoot me, would you?"
He wrenched the pistol from De Chauxville's fingers and threw it into
the corner of the room. Then he shook the man like a garment.
"First," he cried, "you would kill Paul, and now you try to shoot me!
Good God! what are you? You are no man. Do you know what I am going to
do with you? I am going to thrash you like a dog!"
He dragged him to the fire-place. Above the mantelpiece a stick-rack was
affixed to the wall, and here were sticks and riding-whips. Steinmetz
selected a heavy whip. His eyes were shot with blood; his mouth worked
beneath his mustache.
"So," he said, "I am going to settle with you at last."
De Chauxville kicked and struggled, but he could not get free.
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