It was after seven when Ivan Peloff came—smelling strong of drink, and excitement heightening the flush upon his cheek.
"Hello, Meester Walton!" he bubbled out with earnest inebriety. "We rise hell to-night—by an' by. Get him goods by midnight." Ivan Peloff drew his fingers around his throat, and, in lieu of English that came hard to him at any time, jerked his thumb dramatically up and down in the air.
"Who?" inquired P. Walton, without much enthusiasm.
"Dam' robber—him by train come in," explained Ivan Peloff laboriously.
"Oh," said P. Walton, "talking of stringing him up—is that it?"
Ivan Peloff nodded his head delightedly.
P. Walton swung himself lazily from his bunk.
"Eat?" invited Ivan Peloff, moving toward the table.
"No," said P. Walton, moving toward the door. "I'm not hungry; I'm going out for some air."
Ivan Peloff pulled two bottles of a deadly brand from under his coat, and set them on the table.