Terence O'Rourke, Gentleman Adventurer
them with a diet of cow's milk and crackers, to sleep and spend their days in the ordinary processes of tourist sight-seeing.
O'Rourke knew his men well—that was why he had chosen them; with him at their head he had little fear of trouble, for he was wont to command with a firm hand, and they were accustomed to be commanded by him or by men of his resolute stamp.
But, with Danny alone to keep them in order—Danny himself of a nature none too pacific, and, as they would be bound to consider, merely by chance of favoritism their superior officer—O'Rourke was by no means satisfied that his lambs were being safely shepherded.
Nor was he uneasy without reason.
His carriage rolled through the winding, darksome streets—strangely quiet, thought the perturbed Irishman—swiftly from the boat landing to the Grand Hotel. O'Rourke leaned back in the seat, alertly on the lookout, chewing a cold cigar. But not a sound nor a sight of his command could he discover; he swore softly, bit the cigar in two in his agitation, threw it away, and set his lips in a firm line.
He realized that his work now lay to his hand; and he was promising himself that, should Danny have failed dismally, there would be a new second in command before another sun had time to rise.
The Eirene was due to make port about the following neon, if the schedule of le petit Lemercier went through without change; by that hour, if O'Rourke was to demonstrate his fitness for his position, peace must obtain among the mercenaries, a united, complete and lamblike corps must be ready to salute its employer.
He alighted from the carriage, in front of the hotel, paid
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