‘Oui!’ cried Baptiste. ‘Dat’s one bite of flea.’
‘I was thankful I was under the barrels,’ I replied, smiling.
‘Oui! Dat’s mak’ me ver mad. I jump an’ swear mos’ awful bad. Dat’s pardon me, M’sieu Craig, heh?’
But Craig only smiled at him rather sadly. ‘It was awfully risky,’ he said to Graeme, ‘and it was hardly worth it. They’ll get more whisky, and anyway the League is gone.’
‘Well,’ said Graeme with a sigh of satisfaction, ‘it is not quite such a one-sided affair as it was.’
And we could say nothing in reply, for we could hear Nixon snoring in the next room, and no one had heard of Billy, and there were others of the League that we knew were even now down at Slavin’s. It was thought best that all should remain in Mr. Craig’s shack, not knowing what might happen; and so we lay where we could and we needed none to sing us to sleep.
When I awoke, stiff and sore, it was to find breakfast ready and old man Nelson in charge. As we were seated, Craig came in, and I saw that he was not the man of the night before. His courage had come back, his face was quiet and his eye clear; he was his own man again.
‘Geordie has been out all night, but has failed to find Billy,’ he announced quietly.
We did not talk much; Graeme and I worried with our broken bones, and the others suffered from a general morning depression. But, after breakfast, as the men were beginning to move, Craig took down his Bible, and saying—
‘Wait a few minutes, men!’ he read slowly, in his beautiful clear voice, that psalm for all fighters—