“All right. If you prefer to stay here and be shot, you can. You’ll be sorry afterwards, that’s all. I tell you the Emperor is not a man to be trifled with. There’s a fellow downstairs here that’s sick, and I go twice every day to attend him. I give you my word, Patsy, all the time I’m dressing his wounds I have the muzzle of that revolver stuck up against the back of my neck. I’d be uncommonly nervous if I didn’t know that the poor old Emperor is a good sort and reliable, in spite of his fondness for yellow crocodiles.”
“Is there crocodiles in this house?”
“There are; large yellow ones. The dining-room is crawling with them.”
“That settles it, then,” said Patsy. “If I was ever so keen to get out of this, I wouldn’t do it after that. I’d be in dread of them beasts; and I dursn’t face them. They’d be out after me, and me going down the stairs in the dark; and I wouldn’t know how to speak to them the way they wouldn’t bite.”
“Don’t be an ass, Patsy. They’re not real crocodiles. They’re dead.”
“Alive or dead, I’ll not face them; so it’s no use your talking. They’re not what I’m used to, and I’d rather stay here along with you where I’d be safe.”