Here was a slice of luck.
"I'll just drive him home," said the crafty Isaac to himself, "and then see if Chloe will dare to cheek me as she has done of late. I rather flatter myself I shall take it out of Harkaway and Jefferson themselves."
First, though, he meant to have one more suck at the black bottle.
But now again, to his intense surprise, at the sight of the bottle, the wounded man cowered and shrank back in terror.
"Mercy, mercy, great captain," he implored; "as you are strong, be merciful."
"What does he mean?" muttered the astonished Mole.
"Don't fire again," cried the wounded man feebly; "I never hurt one of your friends. I am not responsible for the two boys' death. It was done without my will, for I don't war with boys or women; ah, how I suffer."
"Don't fire! Why, what—ah, I see it; he takes the bottle for a pistol.
"March on then," he said in a terrible voice; "on with you, or I'll fire."
"Don't, don't! mercy!"