“I can’t help it, old chap,” he said. “It’s very horrible, but there’s a comic side to it. Blows hit terribly hard.”
“Yes, the coward!” I cried passionately, “to strike you like that!”
“I wasn’t thinking of that, old chap,” he replied. “Yes, that was as nasty a thing as the savage could do; but I was thinking of how hard you can hit a sensitive man with your tongue.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Moriarty! Why, I spoke quite quietly, but if I had given him a cut across the face from the left shoulder with my sabre, which cuts like a razor, it wouldn’t have hurt the brute half as much.”
“Don’t—don’t talk about the business,” I said bitterly.
“Why not? I’m just in the condition that makes my tongue run. But I say, old chap, we’ve made a pretty mess of our scheme. Never told a soul what we were going to do, so we can’t get any help.”
“And left a hanging rope to show our people that we have run away and deserted them in their terrible strait.”
“Yes; that’s about the worst of the whole business, my lad. Well, we meant well, and it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. I don’t think it will be spilt blood; but it may, and if it does I’m going to die like a soldier with his face to the enemy, and so are you.”
“I’m going to try,” I said simply.