"What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop
your rifle."
"Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry
Blazes. Pass frien', an' all's well!"
But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a
dangerous murderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long
and fervently, without knowledge of fear, and they were surely
the best judges, for Jerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his
possible to kill a man each time the Battery went out.
He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of rushing him,
and knocking him down.
"Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing agin
you. Ah! you would?"--the Major broke into a run--"Take that
then!"
The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and
Simmons stood over him. He had lost the satisfaction of killing
Losson in the desired way: hut here was a helpless body to his
hand. Should be slip in another cartridge, and blow off the head,
or with the butt smash in the white face? He stopped to consider,
and a cry went up from the far side of the parade-ground: "He's
killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of the well-pillars Simmons
was safe except when he stepped out to fire. "I'll blow yer
'andsome 'ead off, Jerry Blazes," said Simmons, reflectively. "Six
an' three is nine an one is ten, an' that leaves me another nineteen,
an' one for myself.
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