“'Mother's in the coffun, sir, Mother's left her home; The ainjulls come and took her up on high. But if I'm good and kindly, sir, And never off do roam, I 'll meet her in the sweet by-and-by.'” Beveridge rose uncertainly to his feet. The song went on:-- “'Tell me your name, my lit-tull child,' the gentlemun did say, And when the words she lisping did repeat, He staggered back in horror with remorse wrote on his face, And--” At this point Beveridge began moving through the weeds. Pink sang on; and he was just breaking out into the refrain,-- Mother's in her coffan, sir, Mother's left her home; The ainjulls come and took her up--'” when he heard a sound, started, looked up, saw a dark figure bending over him, and stopped singing with a gasp. “That 'll do for you,” said the dark figure. “Oh, it's you!” exclaimed Pink, with relief. “That 'll do for you. Understand?” Pink was silent. Beveridge slipped silently back to his log. Night has a way of giving place to day, even such interminable nights as this. Neither hastening nor resting, with no heed for the miserable little company that surrounded the deserted house in the wilderness, the hours stepped silently on into eternity. The darkness slowly changed to blackness; then the east brightened, the sky paled, the new day tossed its first flaming spears, and the shivering dawn was upon them. Beveridge got up very slowly,--for a new kind of pain was shooting through his joints,--stretched, and, walking bent, like an old man, cautiously made his way to Smiley's post. The sailor was awake; but whether he had been awake all night could hardly be, decided from his face. Beveridge had his suspicions, but decided not to air them. “Look here, Dick,” he began. “All right. Go ahead.” “How are your joints?” “Never worse. How about yours?” “Same way. I don't know how you feel, but I've had enough.” “Can't help that, can we?” “I can help it, and I'm going to.” “I'd like to know how.” “Keep your eyes open and you 'll see. I want you to stay here under cover.” “You aren't going to storm the house?” “Yes, sir, that's just what I'm going to do.” “Have you thought it over? He 'll shoot you know.” “There are two ways of leaving this world, Dick, that I know of. One way is to catch your death of rheumatism and go off slow; the other is to let a man who can handle a revolver make a neat, clean job of it. I don't know how you feel about it, but I prefer the neat way. Now you wait here while I--” “Hold on, Bill. Here we have him nicely penned and our plan of siege all settled, when you up and change your tactics. I don't see the use of putting yourself up for a target when we have him sure the other way.” “That's all right, Dick.”