“When the clock strikes, then,” said Landis, and flung himself down in a chair, setting his teeth over his rage.

Donnegan smiled benevolently upon him; then he turned again and beckoned to George.  The big man strode closer and leaned.

“George,” he said.  “I’m not going to kill this fellow.”

“No, sir; certainly, sir,” whispered the other.  “George can kill him for you, sir.”

Donnegan smiled wanly.

“I’m not going to kill him, George, on account of the girl on the hill.  You know?  And the reason is that she’s fond of the lubber.  I’ll try to break his nerve, George, and drill him through the arm, say.  No, I can’t take chances like that.  But if I have him shaking in time, I’ll shoot him through the right shoulder, George.

“But if I miss and he gets me instead, mind you, never raise a hand against him.  If you so much as touch his skin, I’ll rise out of my grave and haunt you.  You hear?  Good-by, George.”

But big George withdrew without a word, and the reason for his speechlessness was the glistening of his eyes.

“If I live,” said Donnegan, “I’ll show that George that I appreciate him.”

He went on aloud to Landis:  “So glum, my boy?  Tush!  We have still four minutes left.  Are you going to spend your last four minutes hating me?”

He turned:  “Another liqueur, George.  Two of them.”

The big man brought the drinks, and having put one on the table of Donnegan, he was directed to take the other to Landis.

“It’s really good stuff,” said Donnegan.  “I’m not an expert on these matters; but I like the taste.  Will you try it?”

It seemed that Landis dared not trust himself to speech.  As though a vast and deadly hatred were gathered in him, and he feared lest it should escape in words the first time he parted his teeth.

He took the glass of liqueur and slowly poured it upon the floor.  From the crowd there was a deep murmur of disapproval.  And Landis, feeling that he had advanced the wrong foot in the matter, glowered scornfully about him and then stared once more at Donnegan.

“Just as you please,” said Donnegan, sipping his glass.  “But remember this, my young friend, that a fool is a fool, drunk or sober.”

Landis showed his teeth, but made no other answer.  And Donnegan anxiously flashed a glance at the clock.  He still had three minutes.  Three minutes in which he must reduce this stalwart fellow to a trembling, nervous wreck.  Otherwise, he must shoot to kill, or else sit there and become a certain sacrifice for the sake of Lou Macon.  Yet he controlled the muscles of his face and was still able to smile as he turned again to Landis.

“Three minutes left,” he said.  “Three minutes for you to compose yourself, Landis.  Think of it, man!  All the good life behind you.  Have you nothing to remember?  Nothing to soften your mind?  Why die, Landis, with a curse in your heart and a scowl on your lips?”