What was fastened in that right hand Dick had seen, and with Ockley's last bullet he blew out Mut-mut's brains.
Before even freeing himself from the weight of the corpse, he felt for its hip-pocket, and pushed what he found into his own belt.
Then, cursing himself for having finished the brandy, he searched the locker under the cushion of the seat and found, amongst a confusion of odds and ends, a sealed bottle of whisky and a corkscrew.
"Robbie Burns, Three Star, All-malt, Pre-War, Liqueur Highland Whisky," said the label, gay with pseudo-tartan colours, which, in happier hours, would have scared him worse than the words.
When he had stretched Amaryllis, still unconscious, in the road, with a cushion under her head and two beneath her feet, he let her lie awhile. Then, encouraged by the faint colour creeping back to her cheeks, he sat beside her in the road and lifted her shoulders in his left arm, coaxing her to life and forcing between her pale lips burning drops of "Robbie Burns."
So that, when her eyes came open, and a little sense into her ears, this was the kind of thing that she heard:
"Oh, yes, but you must! It's three stars, and there's only a pair of twins in your eyes. Proof strength, and yours isn't, you darling! Drink, will you, you wicked girl? I tell you, it's all-malt, and not a jim-jam to the cask. That's the way, my beauty! Now another! It's Pre-War—fitting prize for Our Brave Women Who Showed The Tommies How To Fight!"
"How silly you are, Dick, dear!" she said at last, wiping her lips. "And what perfectly beastly brandy!"
Dick tasted the stuff, and frankly spat it out.
"I suppose it might be worse, seeing its called whisky, and allowing for the label," he said. "Young woman, I'm going to kiss you somethin' crool in a minute. 'Course I'm silly! What was it you did, when I was only taking a snooze?"