Me close up
smash him Cognac." At the thought came his inevitable laughter, and as he
leant against the fence post, surrounded by the shattered marrow, he sat
hopelessly gurgling, and choking, and shaking, and hugging his bottle,
the very picture of a dissolute old Bacchanalian. (Cheon would have
excelled as a rapid change artist). And as Cheon gurgled, and
spluttered, and shook, the homestead rocked with yells of delight, while
Brown of the Bulls rolled and writhed in a canvas lounge, gasping between
his shouts: "Oh, chase him away, somebody; cover him up. Where did you
catch him?"
Finally Cheon scrambled to his feet, and, perspiring and exhausted,
presented the bottle to the Maluka. "My word, me cross fellow!" he said
weakly, and then, bubbling over again at the recollection, he chuckled:
"Close up smash him Cognac all right." And at the sound of the chuckle
Brown of the Bulls broke out afresh:
"Chase him away!" he yelled. "You'll kill me between you! I never struck
such a place! Is it a circus or a Wild West Show?"
Gravely the Maluka accepted the bottle, and with the same mock gravity
answered Brown of the Bulls. "It is neither, my man," he said; "neither
a circus, nor a Wild West Show. This is the land the poets sing about,
the land where dull despair is king."
Brown of the Bulls naturally wished "some of the poets were about now,"
and Dan, having joined the house party, found a fitting opportunity to
air one of his pet grievances.
