At last, out of the ruck rose Verman, disfigured and maniacal. With a
wild eye he looked about him for his trusty rake; but Penrod, in horror,
had long since thrown the rake out into the yard. Naturally, it had not
seemed necessary to remove the lawn-mower.
The frantic eye of Verman fell upon the lawn-mower, and instantly
he leaped to its handle. Shrilling a wordless war-cry, he charged,
propelling the whirling, deafening knives straight upon the prone
legs of Rupe Collins. The lawn-mower was sincerely intended to pass
longitudinally over the body of Mr. Collins from heel to head; and it
was the time for a death-song. Black Valkyrie hovered in the shrieking
air.
"Cut his gizzud out!" shrieked Herman, urging on the whirling knives.
They touched and lacerated the shin of Rupe, as, with the supreme agony
of effort a creature in mortal peril puts forth before succumbing, he
tore himself free of Herman and got upon his feet.
Herman was up as quickly. He leaped to the wall and seized the
garden-scythe that hung there.
"I'm go to cut you' gizzud out," he announced definitely, "an' eat it!"
Rupe Collins had never run from anybody (except his father) in his life;
he was not a coward; but the present situation was very, very unusual.
He was already in a badly dismantled condition, and yet Herman and
Verman seemed discontented with their work: Verman was swinging the
grass-cutter about for a new charge, apparently still wishing to mow
him, and Herman had made a quite plausible statement about what he
intended to do with the scythe.
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