"The moment White-Beak returned with the news that that accursed grey-coated ferret was lurking in the neighbourhood of the Goat's Creek," continued he who had first spoken, "I for one——" He shrugged his shoulders, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the others understood. There was no need to put into words the fear that was uppermost in their minds.
One of the men took up the metal snuffers and with studied care cut the wick of the smoking candle.
"Why White-Beak did not put a bullet through the grey fox, I cannot imagine," he said slowly.
"I would have done so if I could," retorted he who was called White-Beak because his lips appeared absolutely bloodless; "but he never came within range of my gun. And when I tried to creep closer he disappeared."
"That cursed spy bears a charmed life," growled the other.
"Methought de Livardot should have broken the spell," here interposed a third.
"De Livardot may have been detained in Jersey," suggested another. "And the weather in the Channel has been very dirty of late."
"Bah! From what I hear, Livardot is not like to be detained by bad weather. By all accounts he is a regular daredevil," assented White-Beak with a laugh.
"Blue-Heart here says that, even as a lad, he had the pluck of Satan."
"Tell us some more about him, Blue-Heart," added White-Beak. "The chiefs say we've got to do as he tells us, and we've all got a mighty lot at stake now. We ought to know something of the man who is going to lord it over us. What is he like?"