"He's got claws that will reach out to scratch you at the world's end, my amiable cousin. They're made of dollars. And they'll be sharpened with American grit. Uncommon unpleasant, you'll find them."
Landon snapped his fingers.
"That for his dollars and his grit!" he cried. "It's no good raising your bluff on me. I'll see you every time, see you and take it! Leave it out; don't waste time over it. Are you going to carry my message to them, or are you not?"
"No," said Aylmer. "You knew perfectly well what my answer was going to be, but if it's any satisfaction to you to have it—No!"
Landon leaned forward.
"I guessed what your high falutin' ideas would answer," he said, "but I'm talking to you—to you about yourself." He pointed to the well-like opening above his head. "Do you believe that you could climb out of there with a broken collar-bone?" he asked.
Aylmer glanced quickly in the direction of the extended finger.
"Perhaps not," he answered.
Landon nodded.
"You don't know what superhuman exertions a man will contrive when he is perishing—of thirst," he said. "But even he couldn't move the slab of stone which ten men will drag over that opening, if I bid them. And that will be now, if you don't come off your high horse. This isn't a healthy place for my friends of the Beni M'Geel. We have to be moving on immediately."