He sat down, raised his glass, and sipped the drink.  Two hundred pairs of eyes were fastened with hawklike intensity upon him, and they could perceive no quiver of his hand.

The sipping of his liquor was not an affectation.  For he was drinking, at incredible cost, liquors from Milligan’s store of rareties.

The effect of Donnegan’s announcement was first a silence, then a hum, then loud voices of protest, curiosity—­and finally a scurrying toward the doors.

Yet really very few left.  The rest valued a chance to see the fight beyond the fear of random slugs of lead which might fly their way.  Besides, where such men as Donnegan and big Jack Landis were concerned, there was not apt to be much wild shooting.  The dancing stopped, of course.  The music was ordered by Milligan to play, in a frantic endeavor to rouse custom again; but the music of its own accord fell away in the middle of the piece.  For the musicians could not watch the notes and the door at the same time.

As for Donnegan, he found that it was one thing to wait and another to be waited for.  He, too, wished to turn and watch that door until it should be filled by the bulk of Jack Landis.  Yet he fought the desire.

And in the midst of this torturing suspense an idea came to him, and at the same instant Jack Landis entered the doorway.  He stood there looking vast against the night.  One glance around was sufficient to teach him the meaning of the silence.  The stage was set, and the way opened to Donnegan.  Without a word, big George stole to one side.

Straight to the middle of the dance floor went Jack Landis, red-faced, with long, heavy steps.  He faced Donnegan.

“You skunk!” shouted Landis.  “I’ve come for you!”

And he went for his gun.  Donnegan, too, stirred.  But when the revolver leaped into the hand of Landis, it was seen that the hands of Donnegan rose past the line of his waist, past his shoulders, and presently locked easily behind his head.  A terrible chance, for Landis had come within a breath of shooting.  So great was the impulse that, as he checked the pressure of his forefinger, he stumbled a whole pace forward.  He walked on.

“You need cause to fight?” he cried, striking Donnegan across the face with the back of his left hand, jerking up the muzzle of the gun in his right.

Now a dark trickle was seen to come from the broken lips of Donnegan, yet he was smiling faintly.

Jack Landis muttered a curse and said sneeringly:  “Are you afraid?”

There were sick faces in that room; men turned their heads, for nothing is so ghastly as the sight of a man who is taking water.

“Hush,” said Donnegan.  “I’m going to kill you, Jack.  But I want to kill you fairly and squarely.  There’s no pleasure, you see, in beating a youngster like you to the draw.  I want to give you a fighting chance.  Besides”—­he removed one hand from behind his head and waved it carelessly to where the men of The Corner crouched in the shadow—­“you people have seen me drill one chap already, and I’d like to shoot you in a new way.  Is that agreeable?”