“Yes.”
“Well, that’s what is wanted—a good scent, and probably a bit of feeling before you’re through with it.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Lynwood, somewhere in the Gunroom is a piece of bread on the deck. Between you and the bread is a trail of Angostura bitters—pungent, so as to make it easy. You’ve got to find the bread by scent and pick it up with your mouth. No feeling with your hands, mind you. Put his nose on the trail, someone.”
Hands seized John’s head and thrust it downwards. “Got it? Smell it?”
“Not yet.”
“Give him a sniff at the bottle.... Got it now?”
“Yes.”
“Right. Wait for the order to commence.... Stand by. Go!”
John began to crawl along the floor. They were shouting at him to go faster. “Get a move on. Good dog. Good dog. —— ——! the beggar isn’t trying. Let him have it, Howdray.”
A cane sang through the air and fell upon John’s legs, sang and fell again. The blood ran to his head. The smell of corticine and dust sickened him. The blows were falling rapidly now. Someone other than Howdray seized a stick and sent the pain shooting through John’s body. He saw now the reason for this creeping position—the excellence of the target it provided. If he could but regain the scent and get to the end of it! But the scent was gone, and he could not steady himself. The weight of his body on his hands was making his wrists ache. The noise was deafening. On his palms the dust seemed inches thick. When he tried to rise, they thrust him down again....