“Full? I never knew him to more than taste liquor. No, no! You're mistaken. He has either been knocked senseless by some accident or mischance, or else he has fallen in a fit.”
It was the Doc who spoke. I suddenly grew seized of consciousness to the extent of recognizing my old friend's voice. But to indicate the fact physically was impossible. I lay in a sort of trance, with lips that would not open and hands that would not obey.
“Oh, all right, Doc! You ought to know!”
This time I caught the voice of the Judge.
“But he is in a pitiable plight. We must get to him and move him or he may perhaps perish, if he's not gone now. Drat that dog! I don't want to shoot him; and yet he'll tear us if we try to lay hand on his master. But lay hand on him we must. Is it a go, Doc?”
“It's the only alternative, Judge. I like canine fidelity; but hang me if this brute doesn't suit too well! We'll have to get him out of the way and succor the man. Give it to him, Judge!”
“Stop!”
By a superhuman effort, through some agency I never could account for, I managed to utter that one word in a sort of half expostulatory, half authoritative tone, or rather groan.