Drawing the cork, the robber-chief passed the bottle over to Strange, saying:
“Here, Brandon, take the golden nectar right from Black Betty’s lips—no use foolin’ with goblets.”
Strange took up the bottle, and while the captain’s eyes were turned, he managed to pour half the contents on the floor under pretense of drinking, then passed the bottle back to Dungarvon.
The captain took it, and holding it up between his eyes and the light, exclaimed with a drunken leer:
“By Jove, Brandon, you have got a lip for glory, and now I’ll show you that I can swamp the other half,” and so saying, he turned the bottle to his lips and emptied it.
Strange chuckled to himself, as the captain staggered to a chair, saying:
“S’pose you’re going to stay all night with me, Brandon, are you (hic) not? My men are all in bed long (hic) ago.”
“Well, I reckon, as we’re having a good time, I will stay.”
“That’s it, Blufe, you’re (hic) a jolly dog of a boy. Just look in the alcove (hic) and get another Black Betty.” But before the bottle could be brought, the robber rolled upon the floor like a dead man.
“Thank God! my time has come,” muttered Strange to himself. And taking up the robber’s lantern he lit it. In one corner of the room stood a number of rifles with powder-horns and shot-pouches hung upon them. Strange selected three of the finest-looking, one of which proved to be Willis Armond’s repeating rifle, and taking them in his arms he opened the outlet in the wall and passed out into the main entrance. He then leaned the rifles against the wall, and turning moved toward the Dead Fall.