“Good God!” he gasped, as he found himself gazing into Copeland’s eyes.
The breath had been knocked out of Billy and he lay still, panting hard. His right hand clenched a revolver.
“Give me that thing!”
Jerry wrenched it from Copeland’s convulsive clutch, thrust it into his coat pocket, and stood erect.
“I’m very sorry, sir,” he said.
“Damn’ near shootin’ you, Jerry,” drawled Copeland, sitting up and passing his hand slowly across his face; “damn’ near! Gimme your hand.”
Jerry drew him to his feet. Copeland rested heavily on the cask and looked his employee over with a slow, bewildered stare.
“Might ’a’ known I couldn’t pull ’er off! Always some damn’ fool like you buttin’ into my blizness. ’S my blizness! Goin’ do what I damn’ please with my blizness. Burn whole damn’ thing down ’f want to. I’m incenjy—what you call ’m?—incenjyary,—what you call ’m—pyromaniac. Go to jail and pen’tenshary firs’ thing I know.”
“Not this time,” said Jerry sternly. “I’m going to take you home.”
“Home? Whersh that?” asked Copeland, grinning foolishly.