There was a short interval of silence, then the Captain expanded his nostrils. 'Reckon there's something burning in here.'
McAuliffe sniffed capaciously. 'You're right, Captain. Darn it, there's my cigar stub working out a nice hole in that matting. I'm the sort of fellow to be in a civilised place, ain't I?'
He went on his knees to examine the amount of injury done. 'Pass down some water, Dave; there's a hole right here I could shove my head through, and it's burning all the time.' When he had deluged the flooring to his satisfaction, he continued, 'Now we'll just shift the table, so that one of the legs will nicely go over the bald spot. Then it won't get stuck down to my account. I reckon hotel servants never move anything.'
Hardly had he spoken, when a deep, wailing sound throbbed forth and echoed weirdly round the room.
The three started, then Dave shambled across and leaned as far from the window as the insect frame would permit. Presently it came again—a resonant iron cry, which solemnly thrilled the heart in the quiet night.
McAuliffe was still squatting on his haunches near the burnt matting. 'I know what it is!' he said suddenly; 'Father Lecompte's dead.'
For it was the single bell of the dim church opposite.
'Sure of that, Alf?' said the Captain, in awe-struck tones.
'Dead certain. He's been terrible sick. Old Taché never left him all last night. They said this morning he couldn't pull through to-day. 'Well, it's nice to be a good man, though they've got to go, same as us bad 'uns.'
The muffled cry rang again. Then McAuliffe dragged himself back to the chair. 'We've got to die, sure enough. They needn't get to work and remind us of it, though, just as we're feeling good. Fill up, Captain.'