Sotcher pushed at Jerry's shoulder despairingly. "I won't, I won't!" he gasped. "Lemme go--it ain't fair--I wasn't 'ere--lemme go!" "None o' yer shovin', young man," said Jerry severely. "None o' yer shovin', else I'll 'ave to punch you on the jore. You're a bleed'n' nice conspirator, you are. It's pretty plain we can't depend on you, an' you know wot that means,--eh? Doncher? You're one o' the sort as 'as to be suppressed, that's wot it means. 'Ere, 'ave a drink o' this 'ere beer, an' see if that can't put a little 'art in ye. You got to do it, so you may as well do it cheerful. Snorkey, give 'im a drink." But the wretched revolutionary would not drink. He sank in a corner--the furthest from the table where Gunno Polson was packing his dreadful canister--a picture of stupefied affright. Presently he thought of the bar--a mere yard of counter in an angle of the room, with a screen standing above it--and conceived a wild notion of escape by scrambling over. But scarce had he risen ere the watchful Jerry divined his purpose. "'Old 'im, Snorkey," he said. "Keep 'im in the corner. An' if 'e won't drink that beer, pour it over 'is 'ead." Snorkey obeyed gravely and conscientiously, and the bedraggled Sotcher, cowed from protest, whined and sobbed desolately. When all was ready, Jerry Shand said: "I s'pose it's no good askin' you to do it willin', like a man?" "O, let me go, I--I ain't well--s'elp me, I ain't. I--I might do it wrong--an'--an'--I'm a--a teacher--a speaker; not the active branch, s'elp me. Put it auf--for to-night--wait till to-morrer. I ain't well an'--an' you're very 'ard on me!" "Desp'rit work, desp'rit ways," Jerry replied laconically. "You're be'avin' very suspicious, an' you're rebellin' agin the orders o' the group. There's only one physic for that, ain't there, in the rules? You're got to be suppressed. Question is 'ow. We'll 'ave to kill 'im quiet somehow," he proceeded, turning to the group. "Quiet an' quick. It's my belief 'e's spyin' for the p'lice, an' wants to git out to split on us. Question is 'ow to do for 'im?" Sotcher rose, a staring spectre. He opened his mouth to call, but there came forth from it only a dry murmur. Hands were across his mouth at once, and he was forced back into the corner. One suggested a clasp-knife at the throat, another a stick in his neckerchief, twisted to throttling-point. But in the end it was settled that it would be simpler, and would better destroy all traces, to despatch him in the explosion--to tie him to the canister, in fact.