As this dandy of Melanesia leaped into the sunshine, the Snider rifle in his hands came into position, aimed from his hip, the generous muzzle bearing directly on Van Horn.  No less quick was Van Horn.  With equal speed he had snatched his rifle and brought it to bear from his hip.  So they stood and faced each other, death in their finger-tips, forty feet apart.  The million years between barbarism and civilization also yawned between them across that narrow gulf of forty feet.  The hardest thing for modern, evolved man to do is to forget his ancient training.  Easiest of all things is it for him to forget his modernity and slip back across time to the howling ages.  A lie in the teeth, a blow in the face, a love-thrust of jealousy to the heart, in a fraction of an instant can turn a twentieth-century philosopher into an ape-like arborean pounding his chest, gnashing his teeth, and seeing red.

So Van Horn.  But with a difference.  He straddled time.  He was at one and the same instant all modern, all imminently primitive, capable of fighting in redness of tooth and claw, desirous of remaining modern for as long as he could with his will master the study of ebon black of skin and dazzling white of decoration that confronted him.

A long ten seconds of silence endured.  Even Jerry, he knew not why, stilled the growl in his throat.  Five score of head-hunting cannibals on the fringe of the jungle, fifteen Su’u return blacks in the boat, seven black boat’s crew, and a solitary white man with a cigar in his mouth, a rifle at his hip, and an Irish terrier bristling against his bare calf, kept the solemn pact of those ten seconds, and no one of them knew or guessed what the outcome would be.

One of the return boys, in the bow of the whaleboat, made the peace sign with his palm extended outward and weaponless, and began to chirp in the unknown Su’u dialect.  Van Horn held his aim and waited.  The dandy lowered his Snider, and breath came more easily to the chests of all who composed the picture.

“Me good fella boy,” the dandy piped, half bird-like and half elf.

“You big fella fool too much,” Van Horn retorted harshly, dropping his gun into the stern-sheets, motioning to rowers and steersman to turn the boat around, and puffing his cigar as carelessly casual as if, the moment before, life and death had not been the debate.

“My word,” he went on with fine irritable assumption.  “What name you stick ’m gun along me?  Me no kai-kai (eat) along you.  Me kai-kai along you, stomach belong me walk about.  You kai-kai along me, stomach belong you walk about.  You no like ’m kai-kai Su’u boy belong along you?  Su’u boy belong you all the same brother along you.  Long time before, three monsoon before, me speak ’m true speak.  Me say three monsoon boy come back.  My word, three monsoon finish, boy stop along me come back.”

By this time the boat had swung around, reversing bow and stern, Van Horn pivoting so as to face the Snider-armed dandy.  At another signal from Van Horn the rowers backed water and forced the boat, stern in, up to the solid ground of the runway.  And each rower, his oar in position in case of attack, privily felt under the canvas flap to make sure of the exact location of his concealed Lee-Enfield.