O'Flaherty drew a long breath, uttered a short, deep groan, and wiping the moisture from his red forehead, and resuming a perpendicular position, was evidently trying to recover the lost thread of his discourse.
'There'th dethidedly thomething the matter with you, Thir,' said Puddock, anxiously, sotto voce, while he worked his injured arm's a little at the shoulder.
'You may say that,' said O'Flaherty, very dismally, and, perhaps, a little bitterly.
'And—and—and—you don't mean to thay—why—eh?' asked Puddock, uneasily.
'I tell you what, Puddock—there's no use in purtendin'—the poison's working—that's what's the matter,' returned poor O'Flaherty, in what romance writers call 'a hissing whisper.'
'Good—merthiful—graciouth—Thir!' ejaculated poor little Puddock, in a panic, and gazing up into the brawny fireworker's face with a pallid fascination; indeed they both looked unpleasantly unlike the popular conception of heroes on the eve of battle.
'But—but it can't be—you forget Dr. Sturk and—oh, dear!—the antidote. It—I thay—it can't be, Thir,' said Puddock, rapidly.
'It's no use, now; but I shirked two or three spoonfuls, and I left some more in the bottom,' said the gigantic O'Flaherty, with a gloomy sheepishness.
Puddock made an ejaculation—the only violent one recorded of him—and turning his back briskly upon his principal, actually walked several steps away, as if he intended to cut the whole concern. But such a measure was really not to be thought of.
'O'Flaherty—Lieutenant—I won't reproach you,' began Puddock.