"Gone!"
Mahon stared past her into the empty stalls.
CHAPTER XXVII
AN IRISHMAN AND AN ENGLISHMAN
Constable Williams cursed fervently, forgetting Helen. It was his way of rendering first aid. Mahon's mind was too busy for his lips. Therein lay the foundation of their respective ranks. In ten seconds he was running for the street.
Throwing the flash ahead of him as he ran, he wriggled at top speed down the winding path that led through the village; and Constable Williams stumbled behind. As the last of the deserted shacks fell behind, a luminous spot ahead led them straight to Murphy's tent. From forty yards Mahon shouted:
"How long to get steam up, Murphy? It's life and death, and we need the engine."
A bewhiskered face thrust itself through the opening, carefully pulling the flap below to cut off a fleeting glimpse of bare legs and loose shirt.
"What ye take us for? Night nurses? Think we're taking shifts keeping
Mollie snuggled up warm o' nights? Go away and change yeer dhrinks.
What's the hullabaloo anyway? Short o' tobacco? Or has the newest
tenderfoot discovered the one lone flea in all this lousy village?"
"The bohunks are attacking the trestle! They've stolen our horses."