The Best of Gerald Kersh Read Online Free PDF

the world.’
    â€˜Hooh! Well, what you want?’
    â€˜For my visit? Oh, well, I’ll say half a crown.’
    â€˜Go way,’ said Busto, poking half a crown at him.
    â€˜The dog will only suffer if you let him live on like this. I really——’
    â€˜I give-a you money for cure. For killum? No.’
    â€˜I’ll do it for nothing, then. I can’t see the dog suffering ——’
    â€˜You go way. Dissa my dog, hah? I killum! You go way, hah?’ He approached the vet with such menace that the poor man backed out of the room. Busto poured another cup of Red Lisbon, and drained it at once. ‘You!’ he shouted to me, ‘Drink! … You, Mick! Drink!’
    The wizened man helped himself to wine. Busto fumbled under one of the pillows on the bed, very gently in order not to disturb the dog, and dragged out a huge old French revolver.
    â€˜Hey!’ I said. ‘What are you going to do?’
    â€˜Killum,’ said Busto. He patted the dog’s head; then, with a set face, stooped and put the muzzle of the revolver to Ouif’s ear. With clenched teeth and contracted stomach-muscles, I waited for the explosion. But Busto lowered his weapon; thought for a moment, rose and swung round, all in the same movement, confronting the lithograph of Mona Lisa.
    â€˜Twenna-five quid ada Convent!’ he shouted.
    Mona Lisa still smiled inscrutably.
    â€˜Fifty!’ cried Busto. He returned to the table, poured three more drinks, and emptied another cup. Nobody spoke. Fifteen minutes passed. Ouif, brought back to consciousness by pain, began to whine.
    â€˜No good,’ said Busto. He clenched his teeth and again aimed at the dog’s head. ‘Gooda dog, hah? Lil Ouif, hmm?’
    He pressed the trigger. There was a sharp click, nothing more. The revolver had misfired. The dog whined louder.
    â€˜I knoo a bloke,’ said Mick, ‘a bloke what made money during the War aht o’ profiteerin’ on grub. Done everybody aht of everyfink, ’e did. So ’e ’as to live; this ’ere dawg ’as to die.’
    The walls of the room seemed to be undulating in a pale mist; the wine burned my throat. Busto opened a third bottle, drank, and returned to the bed.
    â€˜You look aht you don’t spoil that there piller,’ said Mick, ‘if you get what I mean.’
    I shut my eyes tight. Out of a rickety, vinous darkness , there came again the brief click of the hammer on the second cartridge.
    â€˜Now, agen,’ said Mick.
    Click …. Click ….
    â€˜For God’s sake call that vet back, and let him——’
    â€˜You minda you biz-ness, hah?’
    â€˜It’s ’is dawg. ’E’s got a right to kill ’is own dawg, ain’t ’e? Provided ’e ain’t cruel. Nah, go easy, Busto, go easy —— ’
    I hunched myself together, with closed eyes.
    Click, went the revolver.
    â€˜Last cartridge always goes orf,’ said Mick. ‘Try once agen. ’Old yer gun low -er …. Nah, squeeeeeeze yer trigger——’
    I pushed my fingers into my ears and tensed every muscle. The wine had put a raw edge on my sensibilities. I shut my eyes again and waited. I heard nothing butthe pulsing of blood in my head. My fingers in my ears felt cold. I thought of the revolver-muzzle, and shuddered . Time stopped. The room spun like a top about me and the Red Lisbon wine, the Lunatic’s Broth, drummed in my head like a boxer with a punching-ball – Ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta, ta-ta-ta.
    I opened my eyes. Busto was still kneeling by the bed. The revolver, still unfired, remained poised in his hand; but Ouif had ceased to whimper. He lay motionless, the petrified ruins of a dog.
    â€˜Anyway ’e die,’ said Busto.
    â€˜Of ’is own accord,’ said Mick. ‘Bleedn war-profiteers is still alive. So ’e ’as to die, if yer see what I