Now, however, the three of them, so different in essential characteristics, had reached a common level of emotion. The silence of the night, the phantom-filled cellars, the illegality and danger of the contemplated act, the torturing uncertainty of the choice, filled them with such delirious emotions that they were beside themselves. They were not afraid. They were beyond fear, on to a distant level of emotion, where the common impulses, that agitate the hearts of men, are unknown. Then Mulholland approached with the matches arranged in his hand, so that their red heads alone were visible. “Who’ll draw first?” he said carelessly, standing in front of the group. After a moment’s pause Flynn came forward hurriedly. He stretched out a fleshy hand, fumbled awkwardly with the matches and then pulled one. They all strained eagerly to look. It was a long match. Everybody sighed. “Next,” said Mulholland. Curley and Hackett looked at one another excitedly. Then each spoke. “You go first.” “No, you go first.” “Go ahead. I don’t mind drawing the last.” “What’s the difference? You’re nearest. Draw.” “Why should I? It’s your turn. You draw.” “Come on,” snarled Mulholland, “one of you draw. We have no time.” They both made a movement towards the matches. Then each stopped to let the other advance. Their hands and legs were jerky. They stared at one another with hatred. “Come on,” hissed Mulholland again. “Didn’t ye hear the Commandant’s orders, that we were to get outa the place as soon as possible? Are ye afraid or what?” “Oh no,” cried both men together in an off-hand tone. They both rushed at the matches. They tussled for them. “Keep back now. It’s my turn.” “Keep back, you. You weren’t so quick before. Let me draw.” “No, I won’t. I was here first.” “For goodness’ sake,” cried Mulholland, “ye pair o’ babies. Will I have to pull me gat on ye?” The two of them stood still, looking at Mulholland dazedly. “It’s against the rules,” continued Mulholland with a great sense of importance, “but I’m goin’ to call ye in the order o’ yer rank. You draw first, Comrade Curley.” Curley’s thin fingers shot out instantly. He drew the match. It was a long one. He gasped. Then he burst into a thin laugh. “Comrade Hackett.” Hackett stumbled forward. He reached for the short match that Mulholland held out to him with a strange smile. “It’s your shot, comrade,” whispered Mulholland. Hackett grasped the match and crushed it into fragments immediately. He threw the little bundle away in terror. He rubbed his palms slowly. Then he struck his right coat pocket suddenly with his hand. He laughed. “Good Lord!” he blubbered, “I thought I’d lost me penknife.” CHAPTER XIV