He travels the fastest who travels alone.”
“‘Sing the heretical song I have made,’” Finacune added, entirely uncooled.... “I’ve heard fat London club men expatiate for hours on what they might have done if they hadn’t married—the beasts! They couldn’t talk that way to us, sons of Hagar, out here in this unsexed wilderness! I’d tell ’em what it would mean to me—to be married to one woman! It would mean more to me to be allowed to listen to whispered revelations from one woman’s lips—than——”
“Dam’ you, quiet down!”
“Guess I better had.”
“Shall we have a hand at crib?” Feeney asked softly.
“Not now—please.”
There was a dusky splash of red in the sky beyond the western hills, and a faint red foam above. The evening was soft and sweet, and tobacco as fragrant as tropical islands.
“Gad! I’m red-blooded,” Finacune murmured after a moment. “I could squeeze milk out of a pound note. I’d like to see a dog-fight. If there’s a man-fight to-morrow, I’ll throttle Nookie-san, slide down into the stoke-hold, and see how this new brand of fighter shovels hell.”
“If you leave the woman behind,” Feeney grumbled, “I’ll go with you.”
“A man is an awful animal—when he’s fit as I am,” Finacune added. “The gang is certainly moonstruck to-night. Listen to that ungodly American sun-spotter sing.”