As he came out of the cave the place fairly rang with noise as the men furiously tore loose the rock and dumped it in the barrows. Toppy took a long breath and wiped his brow. The hawk-nosed guard spat in disgust.
“Will you do me a favour?” said Toppy, suddenly swinging toward him.
“What is it?” asked the man.
“Take a message to Mr. Reivers from me. Tell him your services are no longer required at this spot. Tell him I said you looked like a fool, standing up there with your bum gun. Tell him—” Toppy, despite his sore ankle, had swung up the rise and was beside the guard before the latter thought of making a move—“that I said I’d throw you and your gun in the river if you didn’t duck. And for your own information—” Toppy was towering over the man—“I’ll do it right now, unless you get out of here—quick!”
The guard’s shifty eyes tried to meet Toppy’s and failed. Against the Slavs he would have dared to use his gun; they were his inferiors. Against Toppy he did not dare even so much as to think of the weapon, and without it he was only a jail-rat, afraid of men who looked him in the eyes.
“The boss sent me here,” he said sullenly.
Toppy leaned forward until his face was close to the guard’s. The man shrank.
“Duck!” said Toppy. That was all. The guard moved away with an alacrity that showed how uncomfortable the spot had become to him.
“You’ll hear about this!” he whined from a distance.
And Toppy laughed, laughed carelessly and loudly, rampant with the sensation of power. The men, scurrying past with barrows of rock, noted the retreat of the guard and smiled. They looked up at Toppy with slavish admiration, as lesser men look up to the champion who has triumphed before their eyes. One or two of the older men raised their hats as they passed him, their Old-World serf-like way of showing how they felt toward him.