After supper it appeared from Imbrie’s evil grin that he was promising himself a bit of fun with the policeman. But this time he was taking no chances.
“I’m tired of toting this gun around; tie his hands,” he ordered the woman.
The night was chilly and they had a good fire on the edge of the bank. It lighted them weirdly as they sat in a semi-circle about it, the four strangely-assorted figures backed by the brown trunks of the pines, and roofed by the high branches. Stonor safely tied up, Imbrie put down his gun and lighted his pipe. He studied the policeman maliciously. He was not quite satisfied; even in Stonor’s submission he felt a spirit that he had not yet broken.
“You policemen think pretty well of yourselves, don’t you?” he said.
Stonor, clearly perceiving the man’s intention, was nevertheless undisturbed. This vermin was beneath him. His difficulty was to curb the sly desire to answer back. Imbrie gave him such priceless openings. But the part he had imposed on himself required that he seemed to be cowed by the man’s crude attempts at wit. A seeming sullen silence was his only safe line. It required no little self-control.
Imbrie went on: “The government sets you fellows up as a kind of bogey. For years they’ve been teaching the natives that a red-coat is a kind of sacred monkey that all must bow down to. And you forget you’re only a man like the rest of us. When you meet a man who isn’t scared off by all this hocus-pocus it comes pretty hard on you. You have to sing small, don’t you, Redbreast?”
Silence from Stonor.
“I say you have to sing small, Redbreast.”
“Just as you like.”
“I’ve heard ugly tales about the police,” Imbrie went on. “It seems they’re not above turning a bit of profit out of their jobs when it’s safe. Is that so, Stonor?”