"I say," began some one of our party—he was always doing that, saying "I say," and stopping short; a nasty habit, you know, for when one's nerves are unstrung it makes you anxious, not to say alarmed.
"Old Omega!" whispered another in an awed tone.
"Can't be; there's no talking."
"No, because he's such an artful old fox; he thinks he'll catch us all!—Eh?"
The "eh" was to one who thought he had "better go and see if the ladder was there all right."
It ended in their all going for the same commendable purpose, and leaving me behind to look after Boston. I was very much inclined to follow them, I confess, but I liked my friend too much to leave him, so, having a regard for my own personal safety, I got behind a laurel and waited.
"Silence there, and nothing more."
Could it be the doctor! Could the doctor keep his anger so long bottled up—even to catch the rest of us—without bursting?
I thought not: he would have had a fit by this time.
In those days I remember revolving in my mind the advantage I would gain if Dr. Omega did have a fit and died. It was very horrible of me, of course, but then I was a boy, and as I looked at the doctor's purple visage—was it coloured by the liquid et cetera?—I decided that if he were removed, no matter how, I might have a jolly holiday until another authority was placed over me, or I placed under another authority.