“No, I've cut rations one-third—and that goes!” There was a finality about the dictum that reassured his allies.
“Uh-huh, Dashalong, I towld ye Misther Madden wasn't no——”
The sentence was interrupted by more feet approaching outside, then a heavy knocking at the door. The two men automatically moved over to Madden's side and faced the entrance.
“Light a lamp, Deschaillon,” directed Madden crisply,
“Yis, two of 'em—I want to watch 'em fall out o' th' tail o' me eye.”
The Frenchman struck a match for his task. Madden invited the men to enter.
The whole crew came through the door in an orderly but somewhat embarrassed manner. A few of the men had on shirts, some undershirts, others were stripped to the waist, their torsos shining with moisture, Deschaillon's hand trembled slightly as he lighted two bracket lamps, Hogan's little eyes sparkled in anticipation.
“What is it, Galton?” Madden picked out the nearest man bruskly.
