"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." He tugged at the string
of the second packet of ammunition. Corporal Slane crawled out of the shadow
of a bank into the moonlight.
"I see you!" said Simmons. "Come a bit furder on an' I'll do for you."
"I'm comm'," said Corporal Slane, briefly; "you've done a bad day's work, Sim.
Come out 'ere an' come back with me."
"Come to,"--laughed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his thumb. "Not
before I've settled you an' Jerry Blazes."
The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the parade-ground, a
rifle under him. Some of the less-cautious men in the distance shouted: "Shoot
'im! Shoot 'im, Slane !"
"You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry Blazes'
'ead in, and shoot you after."
"I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'it a man
on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out o' that with your fistes.
Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomin' dog-shooter!"
"I dare."
"You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie. See there!"
Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril of his life.
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