"Four—five," he counted. "That is enough."
But The Parrot's big grip closed quietly around his wrist at the last offering and pinioned him and held him helpless.
"No, it is not enough. Now I will take the rest. Ha, wise man! Have I fooled you at last?"
There was no chance to struggle, and Dubosc did not try, only stayed smiling up at him, waiting.
Perroquet took the bottle.
"The best man wins," he remarked. "Eh, my zig? A bright notion—of yours. The—best—"
His lips moved, but no sound issued. A look of the most intense surprise spread upon his round face. He stood swaying a moment, and collapsed like a huge hinged toy when the string is cut.
Dubosc stooped and caught the bottle again, looking down at his big adversary, who sprawled in brief convulsion and lay still, a bluish scum oozing between his teeth....
"Yes, the best man wins," repeated the doctor, and laughed as he in turn raised the flask for a draft.
"The best wins!" echoed a voice in his ear.