"Call them A. and B.," suggested Jimmy.
"Den I hears him—de foist mug—strike a light, 'cos it's dark dere 'cos of de storm, an' den he says, 'Got youse, have I?' he says. 'I've had my eye on youse, t'inkin' youse was up to somet'in' of dis kind. I've bin watching youse!' I knew de voice. It's dat mug what calls himself Sir Tummas' vally. An' de odder—"
Jimmy burst into a roar of laughter.
"Don't, Spike! This is more than man was meant to stand. Do you mean to tell me it is my bright, brainy, persevering friend Galer who has been handcuffed and locked in the coal-cellar?"
Spike grinned broadly.
"Sure, dat's right," he said.
"It's a judgment," said Jimmy, delightedly. "That's what it is! No man has a right to be such a consumate ass as Galer. It isn't decent."
There had been moments when McEachern's faithful employee had filled Jimmy with an odd sort of fury, a kind of hurt pride, almost to the extent of making him wish that he really could have been the desperado McEachern fancied him. Never in his life before had he sat still under a challenge, and this espionage had been one. Behind the clumsy watcher, he had seen always the self-satisfied figure of McEachern. If there had been anything subtle about the man from Dodson's, he could have forgiven him; but there was not. Years of practise had left Spike with a sort of sixth sense as regarded repre-
