Waldron now had grown fairly calm. He stood leaning against the steel ladder, down which they had descended. Choosing a cigar, he proceeded to light up. "Might as well be comfortable while we wait," said he. "I only wish we had a couple of chairs, down here. Oversight on our part that we didn't have some steel ones put in, and a line of canned goods and a few quarts of Scotch. The floor's a bit damp and cold to sit on, and I want a drink damn bad!" Flint swung about and faced him, pale and shaking, tortured with fear and with longing for his dope. "You--you don't think it _will_ be long, eh, do you?" he demanded. "Not long before we're taken out?" Waldron shrugged his shoulders and blew a long, thin arrow of smoke athwart the brightly-lighted air. "Search me!" he exclaimed. "To judge by what was happening when we made our exit, the Plant must be a mess, by this time. We seem to have been checked, even if not mated, Flint. I must admit they caught us by surprise. Caught us napping, damn them, after all! They were stronger than we thought, Flint, and cleverer, and better organized. And so--" "Don't say 'we,' curse you!" snarled Flint. "Blame yourself, if you want to, but leave me out! _I_ knew there was trouble due, I tell you. _I_ saw it coming! Who's been trying to crush the swine completely, if not I? Who's worked night and day to have those bills put through, and who had the army increased, and conscription started? Who's driven the President to back all sorts of things? Who's forced them? Who made the National Mounted Police a reality, if not I? Damn you, don't include _me_ in your blame!" Waldron shrugged his shoulders, and smoked contemplatively. "Suit yourself," he answered. "If we both die, down here, it won't matter much either way." "Die?" quavered the old jackal, suddenly forgetting his rage and peering about with furtive eyes. "Did you say die, Wally? No, no! You didn't say that! You didn't mean that, surely!" Waldron smiled, evilly, joying in this abject fear of his hated partner. "Oh, yes, I did, though," he retorted. "It's quite possible, you know. In case our government--yours, if you prefer--can't get troops through, here, or a big general revolution sweeps things, inside a day or two, we're done. We'll starve and stifle, here, sure as shooting!" "No, no, no! Not that, not _that_!" whimpered Flint, shuddering. "I can't die, yet. I--I'm not ready for it! There's all that missionary work of mine not yet done, and my huge international Sunday School League to perfect; and there's the tremendous ten-million-dollar Cathedral of Saint Luke the Pious that I'm having built on Riverside Drive, and there's--"