There was a new note in Max's voice, one his friend had never heard before, and it was with something suspiciously like a break in his own that Dale replied as he seized and wrung his hand: "Don't say another word, Max. It's my affair too, and I won't have you blame yourself on my account. We've simply fought for our country, and have now got to die for it—that's all."
For a moment or two the friends stood silent, grasping one another's hands. That moment they were indeed friends, and each would cheerfully have given up his own life to save the other. Then the ruling thought which still swayed Max's mind asserted itself once more.
"It seems so, Dale. Well, then, let us die to some good purpose. Here we have under our hands the most valuable of the workshops filched from us. It is only partly out of action. Let us complete the good work, and we shall at least have deserved well of our country."
"Aye; but how so?"
"Let us burn it down."
"With us in it?"
"Aye, if need be. But if we will we can always sally out and exchange that fate for the bayonet's point."
Dale gazed at his friend in undisguised admiration. "You are a terror, Max," he said slowly. "These old works are your very life-blood, and I believe you would go through fire and water to keep the Germans out of 'em."
"So I would," replied Max with conviction, as he coolly reached down a great can of lubricating-oil and poured it over the floor and upon a pile of wooden cases close by. "Well, if you are game—and I know you are—let us scatter all the oil and stuff we can find about the place and set fire to it. They'll never get it out."
"Right you are, Stroke. It's the final, and we must make a win of it. What would Hawkesley's think if they could see us—or Benson's?"