It was only a lightning glance, but it said plainly enough, “chance it.”
Dave trembled all over.
He withdrew his eyes guiltily; they had only wandered for a second—and looked again in Petit’s face. He seemed fascinated, as a victim might be in watching the axe of a headsman waiting for its descent—were he permitted to see the axe. Petit was actually meditating killing the two boys, but he was also calculating the after chance. As far as the act was concerned he had no qualms once he made up his mind that it would be better for him to have them out of the way. The youth and presumed innocence of Tom and Dave would not deter a person of his gentle nature for a moment. He would have no more compunction about the matter than he would about the matter of drowning a couple of blind kittens. Had he the slightest inkling of the knowledge possessed by his hostages regarding the murder of his accomplice on the night of the bank robbery the career of the pirates would have ended abruptly the previous day.
But Petit was a true criminal—he only killed when he thought it necessary. It is the act of a lunatic, he had often explained to his fellows, to do otherwise. Why make evidence against oneself without reason. The career of the true professional was a game in which he played his life and liberty against Society and the Law. He could not, therefore, afford to throw away a chance. But if any of his crimes had been discovered—if these strangers in the boat were come to arrest him—of course there would no longer be any need for caution.
He questioned Tom with a threat.
“Zese men in ze boad,” he growled in a low guttural, “know you, eh? Spik me visout untruth,” he added, “else——”
The knife in his hand was sufficient termination for the sentence.
Tom understood.
“Yes,” said the latter, looking right into Petit’s eyes. “I know ’em both. One’s name’s Joe Saunders, an’ the other cove’s Dan Creed. They’re duck shooters.”