'We shall be killed,' quavered Denton, with hands shaking like river reeds.
A hearty roar of laughter burst from the doorway as the Factor's burly figure blocked the aperture. 'The nitchies are after you, Peter, so you'll be killed sure. Never mind, lad. You're all the time saying you can see the gates of the heavenly city open before you. Kind of anxious now whether you haven't switched off on a side track, eh?'
Lamont sprang to his feet, passing his fingers caressingly round the rifle stock. 'I'm ready to shift, Factor. The sooner we're over the better. There may be spies around.'
'They're dead sure we're trapped,' said McAuliffe 'Anyway, we'll be as easy there as here. Get a gait on, Peter. We're going to stick you up the end of the island, same as we used to fix up a pole with old clothes on it, in the fields at home, to scare away the crows.'
'Choke off, Alf,' interposed Winton. 'If you chaps start that chin music, we sha'n't get away before sunrise.'
'Well, I'm not delaying you. Peter's mismanager here. Goldam! listen to that, will you?'
His face grew stern again, and he held up a great hairy hand.
'The half-breed's whistle,' said Lamont. 'There's danger around.'
'Shut the door!' shouted the ex-minister, wildly.
'Quit your blasted noise. There it comes. Goldam! listen to it.'