“Mr. Bloody Jack Fern,” he said, “I’ll wish you good-bye and a happy release from your difficulties. I waive all claim to a share in the profits of this undertaking as conducted by you.” “Sit down, man, sit down--by God, sit down! I believe you’ve the right honour, and I apologize. ’Twas a test, and the devil fly away with it! I don’t understand your methods. To me we’re as little advanced as two days back, and I begin to scent failure.” “Of course. You’ve a crimson standard of measurement in such affairs. A murder or two would set you clucking like a hen.” “The thaw, man, the thaw. Should it come, as that fribble hinted, before----” “And where should we be the better then, for staining our hands? I play for our necks, Jack Fern. From the first I’ve founded our claim on the unlawful detention of the stone. But you want the leadership--you want the leadership and that means the credit for all. And you shall have it, by thunder, and set that fat head of yours, with the brains drawn out o’t, against a miry problem you shall sink in for all your frog’s croaking.” Mr. Fern came slowly to his feet. “Not empty enough,” he said, in an indrawn voice--“not empty enough, Ebenezer Brander, to misread the little game you’re contriving. Oh, I see through it, my friend! You’ll carry your brains to the enemy’s camp, will you, and----” He choked with his rage. In a moment he had snapped out his knife and sprung round the table. The other was prepared for him in the same instant. They set at one another bent-headed, like a couple of game-cocks seeking to strike. Here promised an end of the pretty conspiracy; but the devil cares for his own. On the tick of combat the door was thrown open and one of the gang stood gaping in the entrance. “Curse the fool!” cried Brander. “What does he want?” The man, half-drunk, stood confused, as if he had interrupted some sacred ceremony. “The gal,” he mumbled, “she’s a-singin’ psalms in the attic.” “You----!” shouted the schoolmaster; cracked in his upper register and went into a skirl of laughter. The tension of the cord was eased, and both men fell back. “Get to your bowl, you horn-bug!” screeched Fern. “What, the fiend! Shan’t she prepare herself for the sacrifice?” “Oh!” said the man, “I thought subbody might ’ear--thas all.” “Hear, you rat? Who’s to hear in the middle of Sahara?” He waved his hand peremptorily. The fellow stumbled out and drew the door to behind him with a clap. Fern slipped his knife into its sheath. He looked at the other scoundrel stealthily, and grinned. “Cry off, Brander,” he said. “We’re hunting counter. Fill and call a toast, man. My heart warms to the ladies. ’Twere a pity to waste this heat of passion on a friend’s undoing, when an enemy, and a pretty one, offers.” Brander strode to the table and seized the flask. “A bottle to that,” he said grimly. “Nothing under a quart reconciles _me_ to a petticoat.”