They drummed the stars down and the sun up, and when at noon there had been no respite from the din, which by then fairly tortured us, the other three, who had been talking together among themselves, called us to the board across the hut for conference.
"Now, men," O'Hara began, "we'll make no foolish talk of being friends together; surely we and you know how much such talk is worth. But we and you know, surely, that if one party of us is killed, the others will be killed likewise; for we are too few to fight for our lives, even supposing as now that every man jack of us is alive and bustling. Is not that so?
"Now, lads, there's a chance we can break through their line and run for the river while the niggers is praying and mourning over that corpse yonder."
O'Hara stopped as if for us to reply, and I glanced at Arnold, who, meeting my glance, turned to Abe Guptil and thoughtfully said, "Shall we take that chance, Abe?"
"Take any chance, is my feeling, Mr. Lamont. Chances are all too few."
With a nod at O'Hara, Arnold replied, "We are agreed, I think. As you say, there is a chance. You three shall go first. We will follow."
"It's a chance," O'Hara repeated, almost stubbornly.
"We are in a mood for chances," Arnold returned. "But you three must go first."
When O'Hara frowned, hesitated, and acceded, I wondered if he thought we were gullible enough to let them come behind us.
Arnold was quietly smiling, but the others, as they gathered in the door, were grave indeed. There was not one of us who did not know in his heart that our hope was utterly forlorn. Only Arnold—time and again I marveled at him!—sustained that amazing equanimity.