"
Yes; Banneker realized, with a sick realization. But he was not going to
admit it. He kept silence.
"If this polo mallet were a whip, now," observed Mr. Densmore
meditatively. "A dog-whip, for preference."
Under the shameful threat Banneker's eyes lightened. Here at least was
something he could face like a man. His undermining nausea mitigated.
"What then?" he inquired in tones as level as those of his opponent.
"Why, then I'd put a mark on you. A reporter's mark."
"I think not."
"Oh; you think not?" The horseman studied him negligently. Trained to
the fineness of steel in the school of gymnasium, field, and tennis
court, he failed to recognize in the man before him a type as
formidable, in its rugged power, as his own. "Or perhaps I'd have the
grooms do it for me, before they threw you over the fence."
"It would be safer," allowed the other, with a smile that surprised the
athlete.
"Safer?" he repeated. "I wasn't thinking of safety."
"Think of it," advised the visitor; "for if you set your grooms on me,
they could perhaps throw me out. But as sure as they did I'd kill you
the next time we met."
Densmore smiled. "You!" he said contemptuously. "Kill, eh? Did you ever
kill any one?"
"Yes."
Under their jet brows Densmore's eyes took on a peculiar look of
intensity.
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