“I shall be more considerate of the safety of the ladies than you seem to be, Mr. Darrah,” he retorted. “You are taking long chances in this game, sir.”
The Rajah's laugh rumbled deep in his chest. “Not so vehy much longer than you have been taking during the past fo'tnight, my deah seh. But neveh mind; all's fair in love or war, and we appeah to be having a little of both now up heah in Qua'tz Creek, hah?”
Winton flushed angrily. It was no light thing to be mocked before his men, to say nothing of Miss Carteret standing within arm's reach on the railed platform of the Rosemary.
“Perhaps I shall give you back that word before we are through, Mr. Darrah,” he snapped. Then to the eddying mob-wave: “Tools up, boys. We camp here for breakfast. Branagan, send the Two-fifteen down for the cook's outfit.”
The Rajah dropped his cigar butt in the snow and trod upon it.
“Possibly you will faveh us with your company to breakfast in the Rosemary, Misteh Winton—you and Misteh Adams. No? Then I bid you a vehy good morning, gentlemen, and hope to see you lateh.” And he swung up to the steps of the private car.
Half an hour afterward, the snow still whirling dismally, Winton and Adams were cowering over a handful of hissing embers, drinking their commissary coffee and munching the camp cook's poor excuse for a breakfast.
“Jig's up pretty definitely, don't you think?” said Adams, with a glance around at the idle track force huddling for shelter under the lee of the flats and the octopod.
Winton shook his head and groaned. “I'm a ruined man, Morty.”
Adams found his cigarette case.