“That was the man,” whispered Daintree; “and he’s after me still! I—I didn’t mind last night—I suppose it takes less to turn one queer on one’s wedding morning.” He was struggling in vain against some growing terror. “Brandy, man, brandy!” he gasped, and subsided in a chair.
Tom rushed downstairs for the decanter, and returning found the terrified man fumbling with his pocket-pistol. He tossed off the spirit and handed the pistol to Tom.
“There,” said he, “better withdraw and reload to make sure. Stop, give it back!” He snatched the pistol and fired excitedly through the open window. “That’ll show him I’m armed,” he cried; “now load up again!”
“You are not going armed—”
“With that fiend at my heels? You must take me for a fool!”
“You would be married with a loaded pistol in your pocket, when you yourself said the only arms—”
“Obey me, sirrah!” thundered Daintree. “Do you know that I could hang you like a dog? Yet you dare to argue with me on my wedding morning!”
He seemed beside himself with excitement. Tom went out without a word, and on his return handed back the pocket-pistol with the same air of tacit disapproval. Daintree cocked it and felt the trigger.
“I’ve a good mind to fire through the window again,” he snarled, “to see if you have loaded it; but I’ll trust you, Thomas; you’re the one man in this world I do trust. And now put on your hat and come in with me to Sydney!”
Tom drew back. This was not in the programme; on the contrary, he was to stay and mind the house.
