“Except gin,” said Brown.
Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin bottle.
“Neat, man, neat,” he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler two-thirds full of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the angry bite of it till the tears ran down his cheeks.
Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out for him, and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and McTavish also doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their voices. His appetite had left him, and he took his own pulse stealthily under the table. There was no question but what it was increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the gin he had taken. McTavish, rifle in hand, went out on the veranda to reconnoiter.
“They're massing up at the cook-house,” was his report. “And they've no end of Sniders. My idea is to sneak around on the other side and take them in flank. Strike the first blow, you know. Will you come along, Brown?”
Harriwell ate on steadily, while Bertie discovered that his pulse had leaped up five beats. Nevertheless, he could not help jumping when the rifles began to go off. Above the scattering of Sniders could be heard the pumping of Brown's and McTavish's Winchesters—all against a background of demoniacal screeching and yelling.
“They've got them on the run,” Harriwell remarked, as voices and gunshots faded away in the distance.
Scarcely were Brown and McTavish back at the table when the latter reconnoitered.
“They've got dynamite,” he said.
“Then let's charge them with dynamite,” Harriwell proposed.