"Owl It's you, is it?" they said and laughed foolishly. "We t h o u g h t
'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, lashing
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 Simmons'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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