“Play and lose, and stand your stake; but no, no, that’s murder!” Monjoy cried. “I’ll not have it, I say! I, Arthur Monjoy—Harry—Charley—I tell you, d’you hear? He shall be warned; I’ll warn him——”
And, knowing in his heart all the time that he had now less authority than the least of them, he continued to command, to swear, to threaten impotently.
A menacing growl rose.
“He’s turning ageean us, is he?”—“Mun we raise another hunderd?”—“Mak’ him draw too an’ stand his lot!”
They pressed upon him, and a man raised his hand. Mish’s villainous face was within an inch or two of his own; and with that Monjoy became himself again. His red head rising above them all, he took a stride into their midst and with a sweep of his arm put the foremost back. He set his fists to his hips and leaned slightly forward, and his eyes moved from one man to another, dwelling here and there, as if he sought to remember their faces. His voice now came steadily.
“Very well, my lads,” he cried. “Get on with your drawing. Draw for your murder—for your torture at the Slack for all I know—I know the wolves you are. Eastwood and I are taking Ellah away, chance you change your fickle minds and wreak something on him, too; but we’ll see you draw first. I want to see who the lucky wolves are so that I can watch them.—Into the cap with the strings, Mish my lad; you’ve a wolf’s chough yourself for blood. About it. Remember, you’re without me and Eastwood and Moon and Raikes, and the best of us. We stick at shooting and cutting and filling men’s breeches with red-hot coals. Up with the strings, Mish; only mark you, the next information that’s given will be by a man who’s coming round to his senses, not taking leave of ’em. Draw, wolves!”
There was a howl, but Mish’s voice sounded above it.
“Damn him, draw! We’ve telled him, haven’t we? What are they doing to Jim Northrop and Will Haigh now?—Gi’e me th’ cap!”
A sinister scene followed. The short strings of the bundle were to be the fatal draws, and Mish held them in the cap with the even ends showing above his thumb. “Stay!” he cried, “I claim first draw!”
He took the end of a string in his fingers and pulled it out. There was a sudden intaking of breath and a silence; Mish had drawn a short string the first time. “That’s nooan so bad,” said Mish, thrusting the string into his pocket. One wolf.