The proprietor uttered a bleat of terror; he dropped his dishes and dived out of the room; the men on the stools scrambled down and plunged after him.
As Calvin Gray rose to his feet it was with a flash of mingled anger and impatience.

This quarrel was so utterly senseless, it served so little purpose.
"My friend," he cried, sharply, "if you don't put up that gun, one of us will go to a hospital." In spite of the intruder's haste in drawing his weapon, he appeared now to lack the will promptly to use it--his laggard spirit required a further scourge, so it seemed; something more to goad it into final fury.

It was a phenomenon by no means uncommon, for it is not easy to shoot down an unarmed victim.
By way of rousing his savagery, the fellow uttered a bellow, then, like a warrior smiting his shield with his spear before the charge, he swung his heavy weapon, smashing at one blow that silver-plated merry-go-round with its cluster of bottles.
A shower of toothpicks, fragments of glass, a spatter of oil and vinegar covered the old man in the end chair, and he rose with a cry that drew a swift glance from the desperado.
Gray was upon the point of launching himself over the table when he witnessed a peculiar transformation in his assailant.

The man's expression altered with almost comic suddenness, he lowered his weapon and took a backward step.

Gray, too, had cause for astonishment, for the elderly man was moving slowly toward the disturber, his overcoat, meanwhile, hanging loosely from his left shoulder, like a mantle.