“Think of it now,” Finacune persisted raptly, leaning back against his saddle with a pot of tea in his hand. “The mere sight of her would jam a sweetheart or a wife, or both, into the brain of every man present--the first kiss or a last, dim light somewhere, a word or a caress--the unspeakable miracle that comes to every man some time--that of a woman giving herself to him!... Ah, that’s it, you old crocodile! It would all come back on live wires--if a woman walked through here--to each man his romance--hot throats, dry lips, and burning eyes. The world holds a woman for us all--even for you, yoked to the war-hag; and if memories were tangible, the right woman would sweep in upon us to-night from five continents and seven seas. A woman! The mere name is a pang to us lonely devils out here in the open, where we blister with hate because we are not allowed to smell blood. Hell!--one would think I had just broken out of a gas-house.” “Twenty years ago----” Feeney remarked. “Hark, listen to that young American sing----” “You listen to me, young man,” Feeney said forcefully. “These lines, with which I am about to cleanse you from carnality are by my young friend Kipling: “White hands cling to the tightened rein, Slipping the spur from the booted heel. Tenderest voices cry, ‘Turn again,’ Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel; High hopes faint on the warm hearthstone-- He travels the fastest who travels alone.” “‘Sing the heretical song I have made,’” Finacune added, entirely uncooled.... “I’ve heard fat London club men expatiate for hours on what they might have done if they hadn’t married--the beasts! They couldn’t talk that way to us, sons of Hagar, out here in this unsexed wilderness! I’d tell ’em what it would mean to me--to be married to _one_ woman! It would mean more to me to be allowed to listen to whispered revelations from one woman’s lips--than----” “Dam’ you, quiet down!” “Guess I better had.” “Shall we have a hand at crib?” Feeney asked softly. “Not now--please.” There was a dusky splash of red in the sky beyond the western hills, and a faint red foam above. The evening was soft and sweet, and tobacco as fragrant as tropical islands. “Gad! I’m red-blooded,” Finacune murmured after a moment. “I could squeeze milk out of a pound note. I’d like to see a dog-fight. If there’s a man-fight to-morrow, I’ll throttle Nookie-san, slide down into the stoke-hold, and see how this new brand of fighter shovels hell.” “If you leave the woman behind,” Feeney grumbled, “I’ll go with you.” “A man is an awful animal--when he’s fit as I am,” Finacune added. “The gang is certainly moonstruck to-night. Listen to that ungodly American sun-spotter sing.”