Beaton's hand was in the pocket of his coat, and, as he turned, apparently to leave the room, the cloth bulged.

With one leap forward the miner was at his throat.

There was a report, a flash of flame, the speeding bullet striking the stove, and the next instant Beaton, his hand still helplessly imprisoned within the coat-pocket, was hurled back across the card-table, the players scattering to get out of the way.

All the pent-up dislike in Westcott's heart found expression in action; the despicable trick wrought him to a sudden fury, yet even then there came to him no thought of killing the fellow, no memory even of the loaded gun at his hip.

He wanted to choke him, strike him with his hands.
"You dirty coward," he muttered fiercely.