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The door was secured within by two stout bars. Against these there had been no pressure. The men waited in a silence that ached. But the latch was not lifted again.

The Snipe, kneeling, looked up at Cooney. Cooney shivered and looked at David Faed. Long Ede, with his back to the fire, softly shook his feet free of the rugs. His eyes searched for the Gaffer’s face. But the old man had drawn back into the gloom of his bunk, and the lamplight shone only on a grey fringe of beard. He saw Long Ede’s look, though, and answered it quietly as ever.

“Take a brace of guns aloft, and fetch us a look round. Wait, if there’s a chance of a shot. The trap works. I tried it this afternoon with the small chisel.”

Long Ede lit his pipe tied down the ear-pieces of his cap, lifted a light ladder off its staples, and set it against a roof-beam: then, with the guns under his arm, quietly mounted. His head and shoulders wavered and grew vague to sight in the smoke-wreaths. “Heard anything more?” he asked. “Nothing since,” answered the Snipe. With his shoulder Long Ede pushed up the trap. They saw his head framed in a panel of moonlight, with one frosty star above it. He was wriggling through. “Pitch him up a sleeping-bag, somebody,” the Gaffer ordered, and Cooney ran with one. “Thank ‘ee, mate,” said Long Ede, and closed the trap.

They heard his feet stealthily crunching the frozen stuff across the roof. He was working towards the eaves over-lapping the door. Their breath tightened. They waited for the explosion of his gun. None came. The crunching began again: it was heard down by the very edge of the eaves. It mounted to the blunt ridge overhead; then it ceased.

“He will not have seen aught,” David Faed muttered.

“Listen, you. Listen by the door again.” They talked in whispers. Nothing; there was nothing to be heard. They crept back to the fire, and stood there warming themselves, keeping their eyes on the latch. It did not move. After a while Cooney slipped off to his hammock; Faed to his bunk, alongside Lashman’s. The Gaffer had picked up his book again. The Snipe laid a couple of logs on the blaze, and remained beside it, cowering, with his arms stretched out as if to embrace it. His shapeless shadow wavered up and down on the bunks behind him; and, across the fire, he still stared at the latch.

Suddenly the sick man’s voice quavered out–

“It’s not him they want–it’s Bill! They’re after Bill, out there! That was Bill trying to get in. . . . Why didn’t yer open? It was Bill, I tell yer!”

At the first word the Snipe had wheeled right-about-face, and stood now, pointing, and shaking like a man with ague.

“Matey . . . for the love of God . . .”

“I won’t hush. There’s something wrong here to-night. I can’t sleep. It’s Bill, I tell yer. See his poor hammock up there shaking. . . .”

Cooney tumbled out with an oath and a thud. “Hush it, you white-livered swine! Hush it, or by–” His hand went behind him to his knife-sheath.

“Dan Cooney”–the Gaffer closed his book and leaned out–“go back to your bed.”

“I won’t, Sir. Not unless–“

“Go back.”

“Flesh and blood–“

“Go back.” And for the third time that night Cooney went back.

The Gaffer leaned a little farther over the ledge, and addressed the sick man.

“George, I went to Bill’s grave not six hours agone. The snow on it wasn’t even disturbed. Neither beast nor man, but only God, can break up the hard earth he lies under. I tell you that, and you may lay to it. Now go to sleep.”