There was a light in the room, but Jackson could not make out any occupants. From his position a man on either side of the room would be out of range. To make sure Thatch was not already there, he dropped behind some currant bushes and commenced crawling to one side. His manœuvre was halted by the sudden appearance of Polcher’s figure blocking the window.
Then came the devilish whistle that carried the edge of a lance, and Jackson was startled and chagrined to hear a feeble reply back of him. Steps shuffled nearer, and the young Virginian knew he had lost his chance of intercepting Thatch. However, the game was not lost. The old man would deliver his ghastly trophy, and the next play would be to vault through the window and take it away from the tavern-keeper.
“Can’t see a derned thing facin’ the light,” croaked the complaining voice of Thatch.
“Ssst! You fool!” hissed Polcher, placing the candle on the floor so that it fed up against his ferocious face but no longer blinded the gaze of his tool. “Come close. I’ve cleared the babblers from the tap-room, but it’s best even they should not see you. I have the jug here, filled. Have you the price?”
“I’ve fetched the price,” shivered Thatch, and he passed within three feet of Jackson in making for the window.
“Good! Good!” softly applauded Polcher. “I knew you had the right stuff in you.”
“I—I couldn’t git no furs!” huskily confessed Thatch.
“You brought the other?” anxiously demanded Polcher.
“It’s here in my shirt.”
“Then —— the furs and hand over.”