ter reckon wi’ nex’ time. An’ yer’d best jes’ remember—she means a lump more ter me than my life.”
He went out of the gate abruptly and up the street, meeting with Murray and Father Denis at the corner. Murray called gaily:
“Going for the kerosene-tins, Steve?”
“We got ’em,” said Steve, halting. “Fifteen, an’ heavy sticks. It’s goin’ ter be the biggest tin-kettlin’ in the township; both parties being sech fav’rits, yer see.”
“Well, I don’t want to have to run any of you in if I can help it———”
“Bhut there is his duty comes furrst, he wud say, bhoy—what is it, Ormond?”
Ormond was breathless. He had a coat over his pyjamas, and unlaced boots on his bare feet: for he had come at the run from his bed in the little tin hut behind the Lion that had proven too strong for his wrath against Kiliat. He was white-faced in the moonlight, and his words were tumbled.
“Roddy has shot Art Scannell. Kiliat sacked him last week, and he’s been swearing to pay Kiliat out. I saw him with a gun this morning. He nicked the wrong man—I found him crying over Art. And now he’s off after Kiliat. I tried to get him, Murray———”
Murray’s clean-shaped ruddy face was suddenly drawn.
“Is Art dead?”
