“O, you pretend not to know, do you? Well, probably you was so drunk that you didn’t know what you was a doin’. Don’t you know that you killed Jones this morning?”
“No, I don’t,” exclaimed Comston in the utmost alarm, now looking at his bloody clothes, and recalling the events of the morning. Soon his mind was clear.
“I dragged Jones out under the tree for a drink of brandy,” said Comston. “I can prove that by Blicker himself.”
“Didn’t you tell Bill Dodds, while you were dragging him, that you had a fight with him, and slapped him over?” asked one.
“O, I said that in fun,” exclaimed Comston. “I only thought Jones was drunk.”
“You’ll find it dear sort of fun,” said one.
“Say, Blicker,” cried Comston, now thoroughly aroused to the fearful realities of his situation, “didn’t you give me a drink to drag Jones out of your house this very morning—didn’t you?”
“Why, no, Comston,” answered Blicker coolly, “I don’t keep brandy to give away. You’ve forgot all about the fight you had with Jones this morning.”
“It’s a lie! It’s a lie!” frantically cried Comston. “I never even had any quarrel with Jones. He was a good friend, and I never thought of fighting with him.”