Procuring his blankets from beside the fire, he made his bed on the deck in such a position that any one seeking the open door must step over his body. There he waited for sleep, dwelling with rapt tenderness on the sight he had seen, graving it lovingly on his subconsciousness for a shrine that he might revisit as long as consciousness endured. He drifted away to the accompaniment of the distant drumming of a partridge in the woods.
Suddenly he found himself wide awake without being able to tell what had aroused him. The campfire was now black out, and nothing but a blacker shadow was visible toward the shore. He waited a little breathlessly for confirmation of the alarm he had received. Finally the plank to the shore creaked under a heavy weight, and Ralph became aware of a looming figure. He sat up.
The figure stopped at the edge of the deck. "Who's there?" came in Joe Mixer's thick voice, quick with alarm.
"Cowdray," said Ralph coolly.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
Ralph sprang up, kicking his legs free of the entangling blanket. "What the hell are you after?" he retorted.
"I don't have to account to you," snarled Joe.
There was a silence. They stood with clenched fists, straining their eyes to take each other's measure in the dark.
Evidently Joe thought better of his truculence, for when he spoke again it was in conciliatory tones. "Gad! You give me a start to see you rise up like that! I thought I had 'em! You shouldn't scare a man to death before you knock him down, Doc!"
Joe's greasy obsequiousness was more offensive to Ralph than his anger. He remained silent.