"Sure!"
There was another pause.
"Well, let me just tell you this, Jim Cronin. If you swear to stand by me and don't do it, your miserable life won't be worth a farthing—understand? I'll wring your neck, wring it good and thorough. I'm not afraid to do it and I will. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes."
The terror-stricken monosyllable made it perfectly apparent that Cronin did know.
"Then suppose we get down to hard tacks," asserted his companion, the note of fierceness suddenly dying out of his tone. "Come and sit down and we'll plan the thing from start to finish. We may as well be comfortable while we talk. There's no extra charge for sitting."
As Ted bent to put his ear to the crack of the door, the thud of a heavy body jarred the shack.
"Jove!" he heard Cronin cry. "The ground is some way down, ain't it?"
"And it's none to soft at that," came grimly from his comrade, as a second person slumped upon the planks outside.
Somebody drew a long breath and while the men were making themselves more comfortable on the float Ted waited expectantly in the darkness.