"Where's he gone?" she asked.
"To get the lay of the land."
She sat down opposite him, her knees drawn up, her chin in her hand.
"Joe?"
"Well?"
"The kid's got me, Joe!"
He said nothing and she talked on, her voice low. Still he said nothing. Then she went over to him, sat down beside him, took his hand in hers. "Let's take him home!" she pleaded, her voice rising. "Let's make a clean breast of it. Let's begin all over again. Let's be straight. They'll give us a chance—I know they will. They're like the kid—white. I know they are. Let's turn round right now. I promised him we'd take him home to-morrow. I couldn't help it! Joe, Joe, I'd rather be dead than go on!"
She rose when he rose, clinging to him. He threw her off, she ran to him, and he threw her off again, his face distorted in the moonlight. "I'm tired of this sob stuff!" he cried. "We're in this thing and we're goin' to see it through!"
"You'll wake him!" she gasped.