The man was opening the door with one hand while he kept me covered with the other, and he got the contrivance fairly in the face.

A pistol shot cracked out, and the bullet went through the tray, but the noise was drowned in the crash of glasses and crockery.

The next second Peter had wrenched the pistol from Rasta's hand and had gripped his throat.
A dandified Young Turk, brought up in Paris and finished in Berlin, may be as brave as a lion, but he cannot stand in a rough-and-tumble against a backveld hunter, though more than double his age.

There was no need for me to help him.

Peter had his own way, learned in a wild school, of knocking the sense out of a foe.