"T-truth? By gad, sir, show me the man that says so; show 'im to me! By heavens, sir, I wouldn't be f-fraid to rout him up the d-darkest night that ever blew, sir."
"Of course not, we don't doubt that, but—there's them do. I'll tell you what it is, Burrill, the thing would be settled if you would just walk up to the doctor's cottage, tell him you are sick somewhere, and bring away a prescription; that would settle it."
A murmur of approval went round the table. Not a man was there among them who would not rejoice inwardly at the discomfiture of the arrogant, would-be aristocrat, who, while he was less than their equal in many things, had risen above them in fortune. He had reached that period of drunkenness, and it took a vast quantity of stout liquor to bring him up to it, where his voice began to grow hoarse, his ready tongue to trip, his brain to be most completely muddled, and his legs to be most unreliable instruments of locomotion. The men about the table nodded and winked to each other, under his very nose.
"Egg him on, Rooney," whispered Giles, "let's have the fun out." And they did.
Ere long, John Burrill, staggering under the additional cargo of drinks imbibed as toasts to the undertaking, and again, as draughts of defiance to the enemy who would dare question his courage, buttoned his coat about him, and, boasting, cursing, and swaggering, reeled out into the night. Out into the night that swallowed him up forever.
"Let's follow him," said one of the plotters, starting up as the door closed behind him.
But this proposition met with no favor. The night was very dark, and the wind blowing in fierce gusts; the saloon was warm and inviting, and their victim had ordered their grog, until he should return.
"Let's drink the good liquor he has paid for," said Rooney, with a wink, "then we will let some more of the boys into the secret, and start out in a gang and gather him up. Heath will kick him out sure enough, and if we follow too close we might be discovered. Not by Burrill but by the doctor. We will bring Burrill back here and two more drinks will make him tell the whole story."
They did not agree with Rooney on all points of his argument; but they had played a coarse, practical joke upon a man who sometimes "took on airs" and vaunted himself as their patron; he who had been only their equal once. It was only a joke, a witless, mirthless, coarse saloon joke, and they drank on and grew hilarious, never dreaming that they had sent one man to his grave, and another to the foot of the scaffold.
As John Burrill came forth from the saloon and turned his face toward Doctor Heath's cottage, a lithe form emerged from amidst the darkness and paused for a moment just outside the saloon door, seeming to hesitate.