He lowered his knife. At that instant Plug gave a jump, and it wasn’t so much that the knife went into him as that he went into the knife. His breast—a bulgy, chicken breast he had—went right up, the point stuck, and out poured the blood—not a few drops, but quarts of it—all over him, all over the sheet, down on the painted floor. Decker’s hands were red, so were his pants.
“Oh, dear!” he screamed, “oh, what have I done? Oh, Plug, it was only a joke! Oh, I didn’t mean to! Oh, oh, oh! Get up! Say you ain’t hurt?”
“Young gent,” said Plug faintly, “I’m murdered. You’ll be hung; that’s my comfort. Good-by.”
And with that his tongue stuck out of his mouth perfectly black, and his eyes rolled up, and he gasped and gurgled.
“Dead!” shrieked Decker, and tumbled over on the floor: and just then—rap, rap, rap at the door, and the professor’s voice:
“What’s all this noise, young gentlemen?”
“Please, sir,” I cried, “Sprat has had a nightmare;” and my teeth chattered so I could not speak.
“Tell Sprat to remember that nightmares disturb the house,” said the professor, “and that I disapprove of them.”
Then he went slowly downstairs, and Decker lifted up his head again, and said:
“Dead! Dead! We’ll all be hung!”