"Well, how do you want to handle the situation?" I asked.
He had his eye on the window and threw up his revolver and let go.
"Your pistol makes a howling noise, Gillespie. Please don't do that again. The smoke is disagreeable."
"You are quite right; and shooting through glass is always unfortunate! there's bound to be a certain deflection before the bullet strikes. You see if I were not a fool I should be a philosopher."
"It isn't nice here; we'd better bolt."
"I'm as hungry as a sea-serpent," he said, watching the window. "And I am quite desperate when I miss my tea."
I stood before the open door and he watched the window. We were both talking to cover our serious deliberations. Our plight was not so much a matter for jesting as we wished to make it appear to each other. I had experienced one struggle with the Italian at the houseboat on the Tippecanoe and was not anxious to get within reach of his knife again. I did not know how he had captured Gillespie, or what mischief that amiable person had been engaged in, but inquiries touching this matter must wait.
"Are you ready? We don't want to shoot unless we have to. Now when I say go, jump for the open."
He limped a little from the cramping of his legs, but crossed over to me cheerfully enough. His white trousers were much the worse for contact with the cabin floor, and his shirt hung from his shoulders in ribbons.
"My stomach bids me haste; I'm going to eat a beefsteak two miles thick if I ever get back to New York. Are you waiting?"