The Factor laughed. 'That's a sharp answer for you, Peter. You're learning fast under me. If you keep that pace—steer clear of brain fever and such diseases—you'll perhaps be able to give an answer to a ten-year-old child in another five years. Can't promise all that, Peter; but it's wonderful what perseverance will do.'
Denton extended a denouncing and dirty forefinger at the Factor's broad chest. 'Stop your wicked judgment of fellow creatures!—you, who walk through life with the mark of Satan on your knee!'
McAuliffe's nether garments were fashioned out of sacking originally used for packing liquor cases. Consequently, on that portion of the garment indicated, a lurid red star was visible above the stencilled letters—'Old Rye Whisky.'
'We differ again, Peter. It's better having it on the knee than the forehead. You're wonderful jealous to-night. It's the minister talking, instead of the bar-tender.'
'I never was a bar-tender,' said the other sullenly.
The Factor glanced at the heavens. 'It's going to be a fine night, with full moon. Don't get spoiling it by bringing up a thunderstorm. Were you ever a minister? Let's have a bit of truth. You're getting monotonous, Peter.'
Denton was about to return an angry reply, when the half-breed again appeared and pointed significantly to the waiting supper.
McAuliffe paced to the door with the exclamation, 'Say, Justin, I wish those fellows were back.'
'It's near quarter to nine,' muttered Denton.
'And your insides are aching for grub—might as well say so right out.' The Factor turned back into the room. 'Well, if they must stay away half the night, they can't expect us to keep a look-out. Come on, Justin. Pass me over that sturgeon steak before Peter gets his teeth against it.'