We stumbled over the carcass of the other as we made our way toward the gate-gap, and dragged it in ignominiously by the tail (not such an easy task as the uninitiated might imagine).
Once within the enclosure I left Will to tell Fred his story as best suited him, Fred roaring with laughter as he watched Will's rueful face, yet turning suddenly on Brown to curse him like a criminal for laughing, too! "Go and fetch that Mauser of yours, Brown, and give it to Mr.Yerkes in place of what he's lost! Hurry, please!" It was touch and go whether Brown would obey.

But he happened to be sober, and realized that he had committed tho unpermissible offense.
Fred might laugh at Will all he chose; so might I; either of us might laugh Fred out of countenance; or they might howl derisively at me.
But Brown, camp-fellow though he was, and not bad fellow though he was, was not of our inner-guard.

He might laugh with, never at, especially when catastrophe brought inner feelings to the surface.
"Take the shot-gun if you care to," Fred told him, as he passed Will the rifle.

"I'll unlock the chop-box presently, and let you have some whisky!" This last was the cruellest cut, but it did Brown good.

When Fred kept his promise and produced a whole bottle from the locked-up store Brown refused to touch it, instead insulting him like a good man, cursing him--whisky, whiskers, whims and all, using language that Fred good-naturedly assured him was very unladylike.
Before dawn the boys, peering through the gaps between the camp-fires, to distinguish lions if they could and give the alarm before another could jump in and do damage, swore they saw Schillingschen, rifle in hand, stalking among the shadows.