Before they set to work, Cig concealed his bottle, but in the course of the hours that followed he made frequent visits to the spot where he had hidden it. Since Prowers was neither blind nor a fool he became aware of what the other was trying to keep from him. He said nothing. The bulk of the work fell on him. No complaint came from his lips. There was a curious smile on them, ironic, cruel, and unhuman.
Cig was in turn gay, talkative, maudlin, and drowsy. His boastings died away. He propped himself against the cement wall close to the gates and swayed sleepily. Once or twice he cat-napped for a few moments.
The old man continued to prepare the charges. Once, watching his accomplice, he broke into a cackle of mocking mirth, so sinister that Cig would have shuddered if he had been alive to impressions.
The tramp slid down to a sitting posture.
“Done up. Shleep a li’l’ ’f you don’ min’,” he murmured.
Presently he was in a drunken slumber.
Prowers finished his work and lit the fuses. He looked at the weak and vicious instrument he had been using, a horrible grin on his leathery, wrinkled face.
“You comin’ or stayin’?” he asked squeakily.
The doomed man snored.
“Suit yoreself,” the little devil-man said. “Well, if I don’t see you again, good-bye. I got to be hittin’ the trail right lively.”