Here he was interrupted by a kick from the gagged prisoner. It was not a vicious kick and evidently meant only to attract attention. They bent over him. He was shaking his head; in the starlight his eyes blazed denial.
“I didn’t mean you,” said George, respectfully and apologetically. “I’m sure you wouldn’t do such a thing. But Borrowman might, and Patterson will be even more likely to betray the others to save his own neck.”
The eyes expressed gloomy agreement. At Pringle’s urging, Mac consented to walk back down to the underground room. That wily veteran evidently reserved his stubbornness till there was a chance to accomplish something by it. They were binding him to the bed when Billy rejoined them. “Well! Wherever did you learn Spanish, Billy?” said Pringle curiously.
“It wasn’t Spanish—not exactly,” said that accomplished linguist modestly. “It was a sort of Esperanto. I met them with a cocked revolver in one hand and a roll of bills in the other. They took the bills.”
Jeff’s sprightly spirits were somewhat dampened. “Whoever would have looked for such stubborn loyalty from this battered old rascal?” he demanded, sighing. “Even Thorpe is not altogether to be despised—or pitied. He had a friend. By Heavens, Mac! I’ll take every precaution to hold fast to you—but I find it in my heart to hope you get away in spite of me.” He bent over and met the dauntless eyes; he laid his fingers on Mac’s hair, almost tenderly. “I’ll tell him, old man,” he whispered.
He turned away, but after a step or two paused and looked back with an irresolution foreign to his character. He finally came back and sat on the edge of the bed, with his back to the MacGregor. He squeezed his hands between his knees, idly clicking his heels together. His eyes were intent on a crack in the floor: he recited in a dull monotone:
“‘And often after sunset, sir,
When it is bright and fair,
I take my little derringer
And eat my supper there!’”