“Not being of the West, I don’t ordinarily carry an arsenal with me, in anticipation of such incidents as these. If you’re prepared, however,––” and he paused again.
Ichabod turned away; a terrible weariness and disgust of it all––of life, himself, the little man,––in his face. A tragedy would not be so bad, but this lingering comedy of death––One thing alone was in his mind: to have it over, and quickly. 212
“I didn’t expect––this, either. We’ll find another way.”
He glanced about the room. A bed, the improvised commode, a chair, a small table with a book upon it, and a tallow candle––an idea came to him, and his search terminated.
“I may––suggest––” he hesitated.
“Go on.”
Ichabod took up the candle, and, with his pocket-knife, cut it down until it was a mere stub in the socket, then lit a match and held the flame to the wick, until the tallow sputtered into burning.
“You can estimate when that light will go out?” he intimated impassively.
Asa Arnold watched the tall man, steadily, as the latter returned the candle to the table and drew out his watch.
“I think so,” sotto voce.