Nevertheless, he took the cup and smelt it.
“Butyl chloride,” he said, “has a distinctive odour. I suppose you don’t call it by its technical name, and to you it is just vulgarly ‘a knock-out drop.’ Really,” he said, handing back the cup, “you boys are so elementary. Where did you learn it all—from the movies?”
The red-haired man half rose from his seat with a growl.
“Sit down,” said Timothy sharply, and with a jerk of his hand he flung open the carriage door.
The men shrank back at the sight of the rapidly running line, and at the certainty of death which awaited any who left the train on that side of the carriage.
“Start something,” said Timothy, “and I’ll undertake to put either one or both of you on to the line. We’re going at about sixty miles an hour, and a fellow that went out there wouldn’t be taking a chance. Now is there going to be a rough house?”
“Close the door, close the door,” said Mr. Brown nervously. “What a stupid idea, Mr. Anderson!”
Timothy swung the door to and the man moved up towards him.
“Now, I’m just going to put it to you plainly,” said Brown. “We’ve made the voyage out to the Cape and the voyage back and the only mug we met was you. What we won from you just about paid our expenses, and I’m putting it to you, as a sportsman and a gentleman, that you should let us have half of that stuff back.”
“The sportsman in me admires your nerve,” said Timothy, “but I suppose it is the gentleman part that returns an indignant ‘No!’ to your interesting observation.”