The Tragedy of the Peasant's Revenge
in my tracks and could only murmur in a far away voice that I scarcely recognized as my own:
"Explain yourself, Wilkins. For Heaven's sake, pull yourself together. I—I—don't understand."
My devoted assistant snatched a decanter from a table and hurried to my side as he cried:
"Throw in a stiff one, sir. You'll need it. It was the prize Dutchman, sir, the Bumphauser lad, that came by cable. He was sore about something and he ran amuck with a big pair of scissors—just now—in the dormitory. Some of the Æolians had turned in early and was asleep. He hacked at their whiskers right and left. The devastation was appalling. Great handfuls chopped out of 'em. Then he broke into the smoking room. Four of the priceless Middle Octaves were playing poker. Before they could get steerage way the whiskers of two of 'em was in ghastly ruins."
I fell into an armchair and gasped for air. I could not find speech, and while the company
