'It's true enough, Dave. I tell you, I don't like it, for my head feels a bit shaky. It would be terrible if we were both locked up in an asylum.'
Dave shivered at the thought. 'I guess it's the heat, Alf,' he said hopefully. 'I'm feeling a bit beetle-headed—but not crazy. No, Alf, not crazy.'
'Then there was Captain smoking a cigar,' continued McAuliffe, blankly.
'I mind it. 'Twas how I reckoned the time watching it getting shorter. Well, well, Alf, we've had strange dreams this night, sure.'
'It's been a terrible bad night, Dave,' replied the Factor, ominously.
Then they quickened speed, in spite of the increasing heat, anxious to get back to the hotel and learn the worst. Their remaining remarks were divided impartially between mutual sympathy for a terrible affliction, and disputings as to whether the hunter's appearance had been real or imaginary. McAuliffe's final opinion was that Sinclair had actually appeared in the flesh, but that Dave was 'terrible crazy, anyhow.'
It was late afternoon before Sinclair felt himself disposed to stir outside into the white, stifling glare. But business called him, so he presently made off to attend to preliminaries of the approaching night work. This accomplished, he turned towards the hotel where he had made a dramatic appearance some hours earlier, but had not journeyed over half the distance when he encountered no less a person than Captain Robinson, as usual buttoned up to the neck in his blue coat, and pulling at a formidable cigar. This latter gentleman appeared to have no appreciation whatever of heat.
They linked arm in arm at once, though the hunter was unwilling to walk abroad for any distance. 'Don't want Lamont to get sight of me,' he said. 'It would scare him badly, I've no doubt, but then he might take it into his head to clear out before night.'
'Which direction does he live?' asked the Captain.
Sinclair nodded his head backwards. ''Way north,' he said. 'Comfortable little shanty. Married, too.'