Free Nightshade and Damnations by Gerald Kersh

stooped, pulled back the blanket, and began to touch Ouif here and there with light, skillful hands; looked at his eyes, said “Hm!” and then shook his head.
    “So?” said Busto.
    “Nothing much to be done, I’m afraid. Quite hopeless.”
    “ ’E die, hah?”
    “I’m afraid so. The best thing to do will be to put him out of his misery quickly.”
    “Misery?”
    “I say, the kindest thing will be to put him to sleep.”
    “Kill ’im, ’e means,” said the wizened man.
    “Lissen,” said Busto. “You mak this dog oright, I give you lotta money. Uh?”
    “But I tell you, nothing can possibly be done. His pelvis is all smashed t o ——”
    “Yes, yes, but lissen. You maka dis dog oright, I give you ten quid.”
    “Even if you offered me ten thousand pounds, Mister . . . er . . . I couldn’t save your dog. I know how you feel, and I’m sorry. But I tell you, the kindest thing you can possibly do is put him quietly to sleep. He’ll only go on suffering, to no purpose.”
    “Dammit, fifty quid!” cried Busto.
    “I’m not considering money. If it were possible to help your dog, I would; but I can’t.”
    “Dammit, a hundreda quid!” yelled Busto. “You tink I aina got no money? Hah! Look!” He dragged open his waistcoat.
    “Nothing can be done. I’m sorry,” said the vet.
    Busto rebuttoned his waistcoat. “So what you wanna do? Killum?”
    “It’s the only merciful thing to do.”
    “How mucha dat cost?”
    “Mmmmm, five shillings.”
    “But make ’im oright, dat aina possible?”
    “Quite impossible.”
    “Not for no money?”
    “Not for all the money in the world.”
    “Hooh! Well, what you want?”
    “For my visit? Oh, well, I’ll say half a crown.”
    “Go ’way,” said Busto, poking half a crown at him.
    “The dog will only suffer if you let him live on like this. I really——”
    “I give-a you money for cure. For killum? No.”
    “I’ll do it for nothing, then. I can’t see the dog suffering——”
    “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.
    “Hey!” I said. “What are you going to do?”
    “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.
    “Twenna-five quid ada Convent!” he shouted.
    Mona Lisa still smiled inscrutably.
    “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.
    “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.
    “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.
    “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.
    “Now,