Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no
notice; but their nerves were fretted to fiddle-strings. They jumped
up, and three or four clattered into the barrack-room only to find
Simmons kneeling by his box.
"Owl It's you, is it?" they said and laughed foolishly. "We
thought 'twas"--
Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had so shaken his fellows,
what would not the reality do?
"You thought it was--did you? And what makes you think?" he
said, iashmg himself into madness as he went on; "to Hell with
your thinking, ye dirty spies."
"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the veranda, sleepily,
recognizing a well-known voice. Now that was absolutely all.
The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rack
deliberately,--the men were at the far end of the room,--and took
out his rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the goat,
Sim!" said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in his
voice. Another man stooped, slipped his boot and hurled it at
Simmon's head. The prompt answer was a shot which, fired at
random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson fell forward
without a word, and the others scattered.
"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I
tell you you're drivin' me to it! Get up, Losson, an' don't lie
shammin' there-you an' your blasted parrit that druv me to it!"
But there was an unaffected reality about Losson's pose that
showed Simmons what he had done.
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