This spirited offer was received with enthusiasm, and the whole company was on the point of repairing to a hostelry to honour the occasion, when Eliphalet Cardomay, carrying a small polished wooden case, came quietly through the stage-door. At his approach the conversation died abruptly, and all eyes were turned upon him. “Please,” he said, asking for a gangway. Someone touched his shoulder, and asked: “Are you fighting a duel to-night, old man?” “Mr. May will answer that question,” he replied, and passed into the street. “What did I tell you?” demanded May in his loudest tones. “Isn’t it wonderful, eh?” “Did you notice what he was carrying?” said very young Mr. Manning. “Can’t say I did, unless it was a soother.” “He had that old case of pistols from the property-room.” “Damn good!” roared May; but the laugh stuck in his throat somehow, and lacked the quality of genuine mirth. The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for cartridges. The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about among his stock. “I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back, if you’d care to try a few shots.” “I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these barrels are a trifle rusty.” Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a greatly rejuvenated air. “Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and actress who visits the town. “I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right method.” They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range, lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then, laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut the inner line at twelve o’clock. “Throws up a shade,” he remarked. His second shot perforated the bull very neatly. “That’s sound shooting,” exclaimed the astonished assistant. “Try the other one.” There was little to choose between the two revolvers, and when all ten shots had been fired, the target presented a very pretty pattern. “You’ve a steady hand. Before I saw this I thought actors lifted their elbows too much to shoot that way. I like your light hold on the butt and the thumb straight with the barrel—it’s stylish.”