"I refuse!"
The squirt won't scare any more Billy, so I exhibits my gun.
"I regrets to remark, Mr. O'Flynn, that this gun acts sort of sudden."
"Shoot, and you go to jail!"
"But first, my dear young friend, I've time to lop off a few fingers, one at a time—won't miss them all at once. May I request you to pour out the medicine? No—not on the floor, please, but into the goblet, while I observe that your right thumb seems tender after that cut, and ought to be treated. So, a little more. That's right. Now honor me by adding a little water from the pitcher. Thank you. Thumb feeling easier? Well, that there laudanum soothes the fractious infant, and causes a whole lot of repose. Quite sweet without sugar. Yes, please, you'll lift the goblet to your mouth while I watch that nothing goes wrong with your pug nose. You want to throw back your head, you treacherous swine. Drink, or I'll splash your brains on the floor!"
"I daren't! It's poison!"
"It's bullets—you'd better! Drink, or I'll kill you! Drink! One—two—much obliged, I'm sure. Hope you'll sleep well."
"Curse you!" he shrieked, and flung the glass at my head.
Then down came the widow like a landslide. She scratched my face, confessed my sins, sobbed over her darling Billy avick, prescribed for my future, wrung her wet frock, and made a soap emetic for her offspring all at once. It's a sure fact that widow was plenty busy, and what with slinging that emetic at the patient, and gently introducing the lady to the kitchen cupboard, wall, I declare I didn't have a dull moment. Then distant shots brought us up all standing.
"At last!" Billy shouted, "they're off!"