"You thought it was - did you? And what makes you think?" he said,
lashing himself into madness as he went on; "to Hell with your
thinking, ye dirty spies!"

"Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the verandah
sleepily, recognising a well-known voice. Now that was absolutely
all.

The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rack
deliberately, - the men were at the far end of the room, - and
took out his rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the
goat, Sim!" said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in
his voice. Another man stooped, slipped his boot, and hurled it at
Simmons's head. The prompt answer was a shot which, fired at
random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson fell forward
without a word, and the others scattered.

"You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I
tell you you're drivin' me to it! Get up, Losson, an' don't lie
shammin' there - you an' your blasted parrit that druv me to it!

But there was an unaffected reality about Losson's pose that
showed Simmons what he had done. The men were still clamouring in
the verandah. Simmons appropriated two more packets of ammunition
and ran into the moonlight, muttering: "I'll make a night of it.
Thirty roun's, an' the last for myself. Take you that, you dogs!"

He dropped on one knee and fired into the brown of the men on the
verandah, but the bullet flew high, and landed in the brickwork
with a vicious phwit that made some of the younger ones turn pale.