Mr Pickering
was no weakling. He had once upset his automobile in a ditch, and
had waited for twenty minutes until help came to relieve a broken
arm, and he had done it without a murmur. But on the present
occasion there was a difference. His mind was not adjusted for the
occurrence. There are times when it is unseasonable to touch a man
on the leg. This was a moment when it was unseasonable in the case
of Mr Pickering. He bounded silently into the air, his whole being
rent asunder as by a cataclysm.
He had been holding his revolver in his hand as a protection
against nameless terrors, and as he leaped he pulled the trigger.
Then with the automatic instinct for self-preservation, he sprang
back into the bushes, and began to push his way through them until
he had reached a safe distance from the danger zone.
James, the cat, meanwhile, hurt at the manner in which his
friendly move had been received, had taken refuge on the outhouse
roof. He mewed complainingly, a puzzled note in his voice. Mr
Pickering's behaviour had been one of those things that no fellow
can understand. The whole thing seemed inexplicable to James.
18
Lord Dawlish stood in the doorway of the outhouse, holding the
body of Eustace gingerly by the tail. It was a solemn moment.
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