“By Gad!—come along out of this, boys, and we’ll show him! Up the Changing, is it? And I’ll give you a lead. Have you got a horse that’ll stand up on this country, Murray?”
It was Lou Birot’s clear voice above the grate of turning feet, and of forms that fell all ways. Lou had carried his swag into Mains last year—no man knew whence nor why, and he did not tell. But the nerve which everywhere commands respect from men was in Lou a balanced finely-tempered sword, and “Scannell’s lot” reverenced it, forgiving his other sins.
“Hold on!” cried Ted Douglas. “Who’ll take the drays home?”
“You and Moody. Head and tail. That’s easy. Where’s Blake? Can he let us have horses? Get out there, Roddy———”
“Bluff!” cried Scott. “It’s the ‘coward’ nicked you, Lou. But you ain’t playing my hand. I pass.”
“One funk among Scannell’s men,” said Randal, diving into his oilskins.
“Funk be hanged ! If young Art hadn’t got a sister you wouldn’t———”
Douglas tripped Scott headlong as Randal’s left shot out, and three more punted him into the passage and slammed the door. Then, as the tide of feet set to the stable, Steve said with a gasp:
