The Chinaman looked hard at him for an instant as if he would have penetrated his thoughts. Then, satisfied apparently that Tom had seen nothing, he said:
“Bym bye you can have. Jes’ now me go give dlink to Missa Lake.”
Still grinning like a yellow image, he glided into the cabin occupied by the injured man.
“Here, give it to me, quick. Consarn it, the thirst is burning me up,” Simon Lake cried, as he reached for the glass.
But before his fingers could close on it, it was dashed from his grasp and its contents spilled over the floor.
“Consarn your mischievous hide, what d’ye mean by that?” bellowed Lake, furiously turning on Tom, who had entered the cabin in two flying leaps, just in time to save the rascal from drinking the stuff.
“I don’t owe you any debt of gratitude,” rejoined Tom, “but I don’t want to see you poisoned by a scoundrelly Chinaman. That fellow drugged that water.”
“Wh-a-a-a-a-a-t!”
“That’s right. If you don’t believe it, have him searched. You’ll find a small vial of red stuff in his blouse. He dropped some of it into your water, and——”
Stunned by the suddenness with which his rascally plot had been discovered, the Chinaman had hitherto remained motionless. Now, with a bellow of rage, he leaped at Tom, flinging his long, wiry arms about him.