"But we can't remember him, Cronin," Sullivan burst out. "It is unlucky that he chances to be on duty, of course; but that is his misfortune. We'd spare him if we could."
"I know, I know," Cronin said. "It's a pitiless business." Then, as if his last feeble compunction vanished with the words, he added, "It's to be the mills, then."
"Yes. We seem to be agreed on that," Sullivan replied eagerly. "I have everything ready and I don't see why we can't go right ahead to-night and plant the machines with their fuses timed for early morning. I guess we can sneak into the factories all right—you to the upper mill and I to the lower. If you get caught you can say you are hunting for Maguire; and if I do—well, I must trust to my wits to invent a story. But they won't catch me. I've never been caught yet, and I have handled a number of bigger jobs than this one," concluded he with pride.
"Anything more you want to say to me?" asked Cronin.
"No, I guess not. I don't believe I need to hand you any advice. Just stiffen up, that's all. Anything you want to say to me?"
"No. I shan't worry my head about you, you old fox. You're too much of a master hand," Cronin returned, with an inflection that sounded like a grin. "I imagine you can hold up your end."
"I rather imagine I can," drawled Sullivan.
"Then if there's nothing more to be said, I move we start back to town. It must be late," Cronin asserted.
"It's black enough to be midnight," grumbled Sullivan. "We'd best go directly to our houses—I to mine and you to yours. The explosives and bombs I'll pack into two grips. Yours I'll hide in your back yard underneath that boat. How'll that be?"
"O. K."