"Keep low," ordered Mahon, crawling forward, "and quiet."
"The m'anest koind o' foighting I iver took a hand in, it is," grumbled Murphy, shaking the sand from his whiskers. But he fastened his eyes to the dim movement of Constable Williams' heels and crawled after him.
Thirty yards they had advanced on hands and knees, and Mahon was searching for a depression to lead off back of the shack, when Murphy whispered huskily:
"Any chance up there, Sergeant, o' nading a gun? 'Cause I left mine back there. But, praise be, I got the shillalah," he added brightly.
Mahon sighed. "You idiot! Lord"—to Constable Williams—"I'll be glad when I have him locked in. . . ."
A string of muttered oaths told them of Murphy's return.
"Another mouthful o' sand! Darn their hides! If iver I get me hands on a bohunk in this wor-rld again—" He spat noisily. "And all for a gun I don't know how to use. But it'll make a n'ise. Maybe it'll do to disthract their attintion till I get me shillalah swinging."
Torrance received them with a burst of joy, shaking each by hand in turn, scarce knowing what he was doing.
"Keep an eye on Tressa," he cried, and made for the front door.
Mahon grabbed him. "Here, they have that door covered. Conrad will be all right. Anyway, it's throwing yourself away searching for him now."