“Now don’t be rude,” begged Beau Maturin. “I can stand anything from plain women but discourtesy. Ralph, you take the bigger corpse, as you are smaller than I am, while I take this little fellow on my shoulder--which will probably be the nearest he will ever get to heaven, with clothes cut as badly as that.” “You can come back for the bodies when you’ve dug the graves,” snapped the woman. “Take the spades and go along that passage. No tricks! I am just behind you.” There was a lot of rubbish in that garden. It had never been treated as a garden, it did not look like a garden, it looked even less like a garden than did _The Garden of My Grandmother_. High walls enclosed it. And over it that deplorable moon threw a sheet of dead daylight. “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers, and they dug. “Do you mind if we take our coats off?” asked Beau Maturin. Mr. Trevor says that he was being sarcastic. “I don’t mind what you take off,” snapped the woman. “Now don’t say naughty things!” said Mr. Maturin. “Nothing is more revolting than the naughtiness of plain women.” “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers, and they dug. They dug, says Mr. Trevor, for a long time, for a very long time. Not, however, that it was difficult digging once one had got into the swing of it, for that garden was mostly dug-up soil. Suddenly Beau Maturin said: “Bet you a fiver I dig a grave for my fellow before you.” “Right!” said Mr. Trevor. “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers, and they dug. “_And_,” said the woman, “I don’t allow any betting in this house. So call that bet off.” “What?” said Mr. Maturin. “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers. Mr. Maturin threw down his spade. “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers. Mr. Trevor dug. Mr. Maturin said: “Dig yourself!” “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers. Mr. Trevor brandished his spade from a distance. He noticed for the first time that they had been digging in the light of the dawn and not of the moon. “And who the deuce,” said Mr. Maturin dangerously, “do you think you are, not to allow any betting? I have stood a lot from you, but I won’t stand that.” “Dig,” said the woman with the revolvers, but Mr. Maturin advanced upon the revolvers like a punitive expedition. Mr. Trevor brandished his spade. “Another step, and I fire!” cried the woman harshly. “Go ahead,” said Mr. Maturin. “I’ll teach you to stop me betting! And I hate your face.” “Oh, dear; oh, dear!” the woman suddenly cried with a face of fear and, lowering her revolvers, fled into the house. Mr. Trevor was so surprised that he could scarcely speak. Mr. Maturin laughed so much that he could not speak. “What’s there to laugh about?” Mr. Trevor asked at last. “It’s funny. They’ve had us, let’s face it. Come on, let’s follow her in.” “She may shoot,” Mr. Trevor cautioned. “Shoot my eye!” sighed Beau Maturin.