Chapter Twenty Nine.
One gets his deserts.
The little party paused and glanced excitedly round, their weapons ready to fire at the companions whom the man was addressing.
“Keep him off, mate—drag him back, Beardy! Can’t you see he’s tearing me to bits! Shoot! shoot! why don’t you shoot? Never mind hitting me. Shoot!—can’t you see the dog’s mad?”
There was a moment or two’s pause, during which the man was silent, panting and foaming at the mouth, as he glared wildly towards the door. Then he began again.
“There, there—you’ve missed him!” he shrieked. “He’s at me again. He’s mad—mad, I tell you! Shoot—shoot!—ah!”
The poor wretch darted out one hand, caught up something from between the bed and the wall, and the firelight glistened upon the side of a bottle, which he raised so violently to his lips that the neck rattled against his teeth; and the lookers-on heard the deep glug—glug—glug of the liquid within, as the man drank with avidity.
“Ah!” he yelled again, and, raising himself up, he threw the bottle with all his might across the hut, so that it struck the wooden wall heavily, and fell to the floor unbroken.
“Missed—missed!” shrieked the man; “and he’s springing at me again! Keep him back—keep him back! Ah!”