"Iss, iss, but _they_'re comin' at ten, sharp."

"And who in the world may 'they' be?"

"The press-gang."

The stranger sprang up to his feet, and seemed for a moment about to fly
at Zeb's throat.

"You treacherous hound!"

"Stand off," said Zeb wearily, without taking his hand from the
door-post. "I reckon it don't matter what I may be, or may not be, so
long as you'm dressed i' ten minnits."

The other dropped his hands, with a short laugh.

"I beg your pardon. For aught I know you may have nothing to do with
this infernal plot except to warn me against it."

"Don't make any mistake. 'Twas I that set the press-gang upon 'ee,"
answered Zeb, in the same dull tones.

There was silence between them for half a minute, and then the stranger
spoke, as if to himself--

"My God! Love has made this oaf a man!" He stood for a while, sucking
at his under-lip, and regarding Zeb gloomily. "May I ask why you have
deliberately blown up this pretty mine at the eleventh hour?"