The Malay laid his hand upon his shoulder. “Stop!” he said, “let me taste from the bottle.”
“Don’t apologise,” said Tim, wilfully misunderstanding him. “I was always the man to respect any one who stood by his religion, and so was my mother before me. Good-night.”
Tim turned into the house. “Oh, murther,” he muttered, returning to his own tongue; “the wine might have shpoilt the docthor’s rat poison. What an eshcape!”
“Well?” whispered Mr Braine and the doctor in a breath, as Tim appeared looking white and scared.
“Oh, they’ve tuk it, ivery mother’s son of thim, gintlemen; an’ if they all die, docthor, don’t go and say it was me doing when I’m not here.”
“Die? Nonsense!”
“Oh no, it isn’t, sor, and I’ve made a dhreadful mistake.”
“Mistake? Failed?” cried Mr Braine, horrified.
“Sure no, sor, I haven’t failed; I’ve succayded too much.”
“But you said you had made a mistake, man.”