“Well, what in —— do you want!”
You can readily see that he was beginning to acquire the dialect of our associates.
“I shot it!” I cried. “I shot it!”
“Pettingill—” his voice was a bit sarcastic—“I will always thank the man who sold me these leather trousers. I didn’t get hit with more than—let me see— Oh, I am unable to estimate.”
“Heavens! Did I hit you, Middleton?”
“Yes, you did—you—er—pelican!”
“What became of the monster?” I asked. “Did it say anything?”
“It spoke. It knocked me down, got to its feet and said, ‘Aye am de ship-hoorder,’ and then it went on, Pettingill; it went on—with my shirt in its hands. If you ever feel that you have to shoot again—hold lower, old-timer.”
Then we went on. Middleton complained about the effects of the shooting, while I suffered untold agonies from cactus spines and the effects of that shotgun.
“We should soon be able to see the mill,” said Middleton, peering into the night, “but all I can see is a huddle of low buildings. One is larger than the rest, but none would be suitable for milling.”