"But gentlemen, gentlemen," Bertie cried. "In the meantime think of
me."
Harriwell shrugged his shoulders pityingly.
"Sorry, old man, but it's a native poison, and there are no known
antidotes for native poisons. Try and compose yourself, and if----"
Two sharp reports of a rifle from without, interrupted the discourse,
and Brown, entering, reloaded his rifle and sat down to table.
"The cook's dead," he said. "Fever. A rather sudden attack."
"I was just telling Mr. Arkwright that there are no antidotes for
native poisons----"
"Except gin," said Brown.
Harriwell called himself an absent-minded idiot and rushed for the gin
bottle.
"Neat, man, neat," he warned Bertie, who gulped down a tumbler
two-thirds full of the raw spirits, and coughed and choked from the
angry bite of it till the tears ran down his cheeks.
Harriwell took his pulse and temperature, made a show of looking out
for him, and doubted that the omelet had been poisoned. Brown and
McTavish also doubted; but Bertie discerned an insincere ring in their
voices. His appetite had left him, and he took his own pulse
stealthily under the table. There was no question but what it was
increasing, but he failed to ascribe it to the gin he had taken.
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