Chapter 27 - Page 2

hope of cutting the other's circle; but, without catching a glimpse
of him, he finally emerged upon a fresh clearing where the young
trees, waist-high, afforded little shelter and less hiding. Just
as he emerged, stepping out a pace, a rifle cracked to his right,
and though he did not hear the bullet in passing, the thud of it
came to his ears when it struck a palm-trunk farther on.

He sprang back into the protection of the larger trees. Twice he
had exposed himself and been fired at, while he had failed to catch
a single glimpse of his antagonist. A slow anger began to burn in
him. It was deucedly unpleasant, he decided, this being peppered
at; and nonsensical as it really was, it was none the less deadly
serious. There was no avoiding the issue, no firing in the air and
getting over with it as in the old-fashioned duel. This mutual
man-hunt must keep up until one got the other. And if one
neglected a chance to get the other, that increased the other's
chance to get him. There could be no false sentiment about it.
Tudor had been a cunning devil when he proposed this sort of duel,
Sheldon concluded, as he began to work along cautiously in the
direction of the last shot.

When he arrived at the spot, Tudor was gone, and only his foot-
prints remained, pointing out the course he had taken into the
depths of the plantation. Once, ten minutes later, he caught a
glimpse of Tudor, a hundred yards away, crossing the same avenue as
himself but going in the opposite direction. His rifle half-leaped
to his shoulder, but the other was gone. More in whim than in hope
of result, grinning to himself as he did so, Sheldon raised his
automatic pistol and in two seconds sent eight shots scattering
through the trees in the direction in which Tudor had disappeared.
Wishing he had a shot-gun, Sheldon dropped to the ground behind a
tree, slipped a fresh clip up the hollow butt of the pistol, threw
a cartridge into the chamber, shoved the safety catch into place,
and reloaded the empty clip.

It was but a short time after that that Tudor tried the same trick
on him, the bullets pattering about him like spiteful rain,
thudding into the palm trunks, or glancing off in whining
ricochets. The last bullet of all, making a double ricochet from
two different trees and losing most of its momentum, struck Sheldon
a sharp blow on the forehead and dropped at his feet. He was
partly stunned for the moment, but on investigation found no
greater harm than a nasty lump that soon rose to the size of a
pigeon's egg.

The hunt went on. Once, coming to the edge of the grove near the
bungalow, he saw the house-boys and the cook, clustered on the back
veranda and peering curiously among the trees, talking and