“W’y then,” exclaimed Harry Collins, the Kansan, “good for him!”
The parson snatched off his brass-bowed spectacles, and his brow lowered fiercely over his cherubic eyes.
“And so you had to come and tell us?” he demanded.
But the traitorous old man had not the smallest thought of his shame, nor could have.
“You–you will let him escape?” he challenged them in frantic anger.
The mess stole abashed glances at one another. They would, they knew well enough, have to act on this information. But they were men for a fair fight, and they had no stomach to rob the besieged of a last desperate chance. For a moment they were enraged against the informer.
“We’ll just keep him here,” said one.
“Yes, till morning. Then he’ll tell no one else, and we won’t. Poor old Maxie!”
“Sure,” ejaculated Collins, “give Golden Whiskers a show!”
The wolfish light in the sunken eyes quickened to a flash. Lust for Maximilian’s capture turned to chagrin.