Tuke, like a dying man, saw him nod to him darkly—a grotesque phantasm as of a last delirium; saw him turn and, in company with his chief, stalk from the room; knew himself committed to such a further ordeal of torture as he feared his weakened body would be powerless to sustain; and, as the last echo of retreating footsteps came to his ears, his head dropped upon his breast and he despaired.
CHAPTER XLVI.
An apology is submitted for here retailing some commonplaces of a very evil duet of rascals.
That began with certain dropping shots of irony, and it ended at pretty close range.
The kitchen of the tumbled lodge served for guardhouse; and the two officers were quartered in the little parlour opposite Mr. Tuke’s room of bondage. Between walked a sentry, and another (on this occasion Mr. Joseph Corby) was stationed to the front of the house in the freezing moonlight. Burnt fallow-deer meat had been plentifully bolted after the exertions of the day, and kegs of rum—supplied, it must be confessed, by Mr. Breeds, who was not otherwise represented in this climax of affairs—topped very agreeably the simplicity of the repast.
Mr. Fern and his lieutenant exchanged speech for the first time after the second glass. Then said the former suddenly:
“Brander, who’s the cock of this run?”
“Oh, don’t you know, Jack Fern,” was the answer; “the bantam, by the token, that crows himself red in the face?”
There seemed some personality here.
“Then I’ll have you know, by God, that I’m not to be supplanted by any white-shackled rooster that can out-screech me. You assume too much authority, sir, on the strength of an acquaintance with primers.”