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.