The Duel That Was Not Fought

Patsy Tulligan was not as wise as seven owls, but his courage could
throw a shadow as long as the steeple of a cathedral. There were men on
Cherry Street who had whipped him five times, but they all knew that
Patsy would be as ready for the sixth time as if nothing had happened.

Once he and two friends had been away up on Eighth Avenue, far out of
their country, and upon their return journey that evening they stopped
frequently in saloons until they were as independent of their
surroundings as eagles, and cared much less about thirty days on
Blackwell's.

On Lower Sixth Avenue they paused in a saloon where there was a good
deal of lamp-glare and polished wood to be seen from the outside, and
within, the mellow light shone on much furbished brass and more polished
wood. It was a better saloon than they were in the habit of seeing, but
they did not mind it. They sat down at one of the little tables that
were in a row parallel to the bar and ordered beer. They blinked
stolidly at the decorations, the bartender, and the other customers.
When anything transpired they discussed it with dazzling frankness, and
what they said of it was as free as air to the other people in the
place.

At midnight there were few people in the saloon. Patsy and his friends
still sat drinking. Two well-dressed men were at another table, smoking
cigars slowly and swinging back in their chairs. They occupied
themselves with themselves in the usual manner, never betraying by a
wink of an eyelid that they knew that other folk existed. At another
table directly behind Patsy and his companions was a slim little Cuban,
with miraculously small feet and hands, and with a youthful touch of
down upon his lip. As he lifted his cigarette from time to time his
little finger was bended in dainty fashion, and there was a green flash
when a huge emerald ring caught the light. The bartender came often with
his little brass tray. Occasionally Patsy and his two friends
quarrelled.

Once this little Cuban happened to make some slight noise and Patsy
turned his head to observe him. Then Patsy made a careless and rather
loud comment to his two friends. He used a word which is no more than
passing the time of day down in Cherry Street, but to the Cuban it was a
dagger-point. There was a harsh scraping sound as a chair was pushed
swiftly back.

The little Cuban was upon his feet. His eyes were shining with a rage
that flashed there like sparks as he glared at Patsy. His olive face had
turned a shade of grey from his anger. Withal his chest was thrust out
in portentous dignity, and his hand, still grasping his wine-glass, was
cool and steady, the little finger still bended, the great emerald
gleaming upon it. The others,