I held it level with my eye and squinted through the barrels.
"Don't shoot," said a voice from the doorway; "I'll come down." I lowered the gun, turned and looked.

"Big Jim" Colton was standing there, cigar in mouth, cap on the back of his head and both hands in his pockets, exactly as he had appeared in that same doorway when he and I first met.

The expected had happened, part of it at least.

He had come to see me; the disagreeable interview I had foreseen was at hand.
He nodded and entered without waiting for an invitation.
"Morning," he said.
"Good morning," said I, guardedly.

I wondered how he would begin the conversation.