eel butt of an army revolver. Loge perceived by his
face that he had seen it, and laughed.

"I've been wanting to talk to you," he said, leaning across the table
and showing his yellow teeth in a smile which he perhaps intended to be
ingratiating. Cleggett, looking Loge fixedly in the eye, withdrew his
right hand from beneath his coat, and laid his magazine pistol on the
table under his hand.

"I am at your service," he said, steadily, giving back unwavering gaze
for gaze. "I am looking for some information myself, and I am in
exactly the humor for a little comfortable chat."

CHAPTER XI

REPARTEE AND PISTOLS

Loge dropped his gaze to the pistol, and the smile upon his lips slowly
turned into a sneer. But when he lifted his eyes to Cleggett's again
there was no fear in them.

"Put up your gun," he said, easily enough. "You won't have any use for
it here."

"Thank you for the assurance," said Cleggett, "but it occurs to me that
it is in a very good place where it is."

"Oh, if it amuses you to play with it----" said Loge.

"It does," said Cleggett dryly.

"It's an odd taste," said Loge.

"It's a taste I've formed during the last few days on board my ship,"
said Cleggett meaningly.

"Ship?" said Loge. "Oh, I beg your pardon. You mean the old hulk over
yonder in the canal?"

"Over yonder in the canal," said Cleggett, without relaxing his
vigilance.

"You've been frightened over there?" asked Loge, showing his teeth in a
grin.

"No," said Cleggett. "I'm not easily frightened."

Loge looked at the pistol under Cleggett's hand, and from the pistol to
Cleggett's face, with ironical gravity, before he spoke. "I should
have thought, from the way you cling to that pistol, that perhaps your
nerves might be a little weak and shaky."

"On the contrary," said Cleggett, playing the game with a face like a
mask, "my nerves are so steady that I could snip that ugly-looking
skull off your cravat the length of this barroom away."

"That would be mighty good shooting," said Loge, turning in his chair
and measuring the distance with his eye. "I don't believe you could do
it. I don't mind telling you that _I_ couldn't."

"While we are on the subject of your scarfpin," said Cleggett, in whom
the slur on the Jasper B. had been rankling, "I don't mind telling YOU
that I think that skull thing is in damned bad taste. In fact, you are
dressed generally in damned bad taste.--Who is your tailor?"

Cleggett w