“That's the worst of all,” he said with slow emphasis. “That's the end. I came to them from the other side of the earth and they took me and—see what they made of me.”
“What place do you belong to?” asked Lingard.
“Tromso,” groaned out Jorgenson; “I will never see snow again,” he sobbed out, his face in his hands.
Lingard looked at him in silence.
“Would you come with me?” he said. “As I told you, I am in want of a—”
“I would see you damned first!” broke out the other, savagely. “I am an old white loafer, but you don't get me to meddle in their infernal affairs. They have a devil of their own—”
“The thing simply can't fail. I've calculated every move. I've guarded against everything. I am no fool.”
“Yes—you are. Good-night.”
“Well, good-bye,” said Lingard, calmly.
He stepped into his boat, and Jorgenson walked up the jetty. Lingard, clearing the yoke lines, heard him call out from a distance: