coolly, though his look was livid. “Who’d listen to you? Who’d believe you? Old Gavin Masters—eh? He loves you, Roger. He has confidence in you.”

Roger stood cursing to himself, demanding finally, “And the lad here,—what’s he goin’ to do with the lad?”

“How in the devil’s name does it concern you, p. 72Galt?” cried Martin, with sudden flaming anger. “You’ve done your share of the work and you’ll be paid for it.”

p. 72

“Ay, but you answer me! What’s to be done with the lad? Hark ’ee, Martin, I’m sick to death of the whole crew of ye. And of none more than yourself, unless it’s himself. I’ve done my work on the roads, and there’s a few the poorer for it; but I’ve never done aught of a kind with this. Kidnappin’ an’ maybe murder at the finish.”

“What d’ye mean?” Martin asked, drawing back his chair, to be out of reach of Roger Galt’s rising rage, as the drink worked within him.

“What’s he goin’ to do with the lad there?” Roger growled. “Get him out of the way—oh, ay, I know that, and can guess for why. From the looks of him! But how’s he goin’ to rid himself of him? Ship him overseas with Blunt, or what? Martin, I’ll have no hand in aught that don’t give the lad a chance for his life,—d’ye hear me? Who’s he? Dick Craike’s lad as ever was! And they did for Dick Craike—ay, they did, they did, years agone.”

Martin, starting up, screeched out, “Shut your fool’s mouth! You’re drunk, Roger Galt. The lad’s to be kept here, till he comes. He’ll be here to-night. Tell him what you’ve said to me! p. 73Tell him! Get the lantern and give me the keys, Mother Mag. We’ll lock the lad away upstairs; when the master comes he’ll not be wanting him taking his ease here like a gentleman!”

p. 73

p. 75Chapter IX. Mr. Charles Craike

p. 75

Directing me with a gesture to rise and follow, Martin opened the door into the hall. The woman, taking the lantern, lit it from the fire with a twig. A moment I hesitated, preferring to remain with big Roger Galt, who was inclined to make my cause his own, to following the sinister Martin and old Mother Mag, but Roger had lurched to a chair, and sat there glowering and muttering to himself without further regard for me. Moreover, Martin, observing my hesitation, plucked a pistol from his pocket, and cocking it, swore with a bitter oath to blow out my 

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