E. W. Hornung: Dead Men Tell No Tales

CHAPTER 13: THE LONGEST DAY OF MY LIFE (continued)

A shadow lay across the kitchen floor; it was that of the deaf mute, as he stood on a chair before the fire, supporting himself on the chimney piece with one puny arm, while he reached overhead with the other. I stood by for an instant, glorying in the thought that he could not hear me; the next, I saw what it was he was reaching up for - a bell-mouthed blunderbuss - and I knew the little devil for the impostor that he was.

"You touch it," said I, "and you'll drop dead on that hearth."

He pretended not to hear me, but he heard the click of the splendid spring which Messrs. Deane and Adams had put into that early revolver of theirs, and he could not have come down much quicker with my bullet in his spine.

"Now, then," I said, "what the devil do you mean by shamming deaf and dumb?"

"I niver said I was owt o' t' sort," he whimpered, cowering behind the chair in a sullen ague.

"But you acted it, and I've a jolly good mind to shoot you dead!" (Remember, I was so weak myself that I thought my arm would break from presenting my five chambers and my ten-inch barrel; otherwise I should be sorry to relate how I bullied that mouse of a man.) "I may let you off," I continued, "if you answer questions. Where's your wife?"

"Eh, she'll be back directly! " said Braithwaite, with some tact; but his look was too cunning to give the warning weight. "I've a bullet to spare for her," said I, cheerfully; "now, then, where is she?"

"Gone wi' the oothers, for owt I knaw."

"And where are the others gone?"

"Where they allus go, ower to t' say."

"Over to the sea, eh? We're getting on! What takes them there?"