Chapter Twenty Nine.
Abe’s Billy Goat.
Our Poison Club was in a flourishing condition. During the past year the members had killed off 1,500 red cats, wild dogs, jackals, seven leopards, and 500 baboons. This represented a good round sum—each tail being equivalent to a five-shilling demand on the exchequer of the country—and the chairman had called a meeting to distribute the awards.
“I have pleasure in announcing, gentlemen,” he said, “that Mr Si Amos is the champion poisoner—having placed to his credit 300 cat tails, seventy-five jackal tails, fifty-four baboon tails, and one leopard tail. In addition to the dues which are rightly his, he is entitled to the silver medal presented by the club.”
“Well done, Si! Step up!”
Silas pulled his lank figure together, hitched up his trousers, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and lumbered up the narrow passage.
“Give him pizen!” said someone in a loud voice, whereat there were cries of “Shame!”
Silas paused, balanced himself uncertainly on one leg, and searched the audience.
“It’s that Abe,” he said. “What he says don’t amount to nothin’.”
“Mr Pike,” expostulated the chairman; “I’m astonished at you.”