Of the King’s Treasure
“The better for us to pick ’em off, Dan,” I returned, laughing at him.
“What—Oliver? damn Oliver!” [1] said Zacchary. “Let’s push forward and come to quarters.”
“Softly, my young cockerel,” I said, “and where the mischief d’ye suppose you’ll be finding your game by this?”
“Oh,” says Creech, with a sneer, “they’re ahiding from Zacchary Mills, that’s what they are. They’re all afraid of him and his barkers, they are. They know his stomach for blood, they do. We ain’t to do nothing, Dick Ryder, but to set down upon our prats and see ’em put up their hands and cry for mercy to this fire-eater here.”
“Hold your tongue, Dan,” said I angrily, for I could see Zacchary’s eyes gleaming. “Wait till we are finished with the job, and then, if you come out clear, you can settle your jealousies together. I’ll not come between you,” I says. “But there’s one road
- ↑ Note.—A facetious nickname for the moon: designed, it may be, in a humour of compliment, to the Lord Protector.
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