“Ha!” said the Spook, “that is good! Blood is drawn, and now no more need be shed.”
The lid came off, and the Pimple shook out into the handkerchief—a little heap of ashes.
“The emblem of death, as promised,” said the Spook, “Is the tin empty?”
The Pimple looked inside, thrust in his fingers and felt carefully round.
“There is nothing,” he said.
“Then if that is all,” said the Spook, “you may throw it away.”
Moïse threw the tin down the hillside. All the light died out of Kiazim’s eyes, the unhappy Cook opened his mouth to say something, but remembered the orders for silence in time, and stood with his mouth agape. Moïse was on the verge of tears.
“Ha! ha! ha!” said the Spook. “I said a casual person would throw it away! Cook! Are you more careful than Moïse?”
“Evvet!” (Yes) said the Cook, shutting his mouth like a rat-trap. Once more he was all eagerness.
“Then examine it, Cook!”