Dan awoke from his dream, and sat suddenly up in bed in his shirt sleeves, and stared at the people in his room,—a hotel boy and two strangers, not unlike the men in his dream. He brushed his hand across his eyes.

“Sit down, will you? Do you speak English?”

They were foreigners, but they did speak English, no doubt far more perfectly than did Dan Blair.

“Look here,” the boy said, “I don’t know what’s the matter with me—I must have had a ripping jag on last night—let me put my head in a basin of water, will you?”

He dived into the dressing-room, and came out in another second, his blond head wet, wiping his face and hair furiously with a towel. He hadn’t beamed as he did now on these two strange men—for weeks.

“Well,” he asked slowly, “I expect you’ve come to ask me to fight with Prince Poniotowsky—yes? It’s against our principles, you know, in the States—we don’t do that way. Personally, I’d throw anything at him I could lay my hands on, but I don’t care to have him let daylight through me, and I don’t care to kill your friend. See? I’m an American—yes, I know, I know,” he nodded sagely, “but we don’t have your kind of fights out our way. It means business when we go out to shoot.”

He threw the towel down on the table, soaking wet as it was, put his hands in the pockets of his evening clothes, which he still wore, for he had not undressed, threw his young, blond head back and frankly told his visitors:

“I’m not up on swords. I’ve seen them in pictures and read about them, but I’ll be darned if I’ve ever had one in my hand.”

His expression changed at the quiet response of Poniotowsky’s seconds.

“Gee. Whew!” he exclaimed, “he does, does he? Twenty paces—revolvers—why, he’s a bird—a bird!”

A slight flush rose along Dan’s cheeks. “I never liked him, and you don’t want to hear what I think of him. But I’ll be darned if he isn’t a bird.”

His eyes caught sight of a blue envelope on the table. He tore the telegram open. It was Ruggles’ answer to his question:

“Quite true. Tell you about it. Arrive your hotel around noon.”

The despatch informed him that he was really a pauper and also that he had a second for his duel with Poniotowsky. His guests stood formally before the young barbarian.

“Look here,” he continued amiably, “I can’t meet your Dago friend like this, it’s not fair. He hasn’t seen me shoot; it isn’t for me to say it, but I can’t miss. Hold,” he interrupted, “he has, too. He was at the Galoreys’ at that first shoot. Ah—well, I refuse, tell him so, will you? Tell him I’m an American and a cowboy and that for me a duel at twenty paces with a pistol would mean murder. I like his pluck—it’s all right—tell him anything you like. He ought to have chosen swords. He would have had me there.”

They retired as formally as they had entered, and took his answer to their client, and after a bath and careful toilet Dan went out, leaving a line for Ruggles, to say that he would be at the hotel to meet him at noon.