Kent eased away a moment, and the sailor, wriggling his neck as though
from the pressure, managed to loosen the noose a bit and work it up so
the point of contact was just under the chin.

"Well?" Kent questioned, expecting the disclosure.

But Cardegee grinned. "Go ahead with your 'angin', you bloomin' old pot-
wolloper!"

Then, as the sailor had anticipated, the tragedy became a farce. Cardegee
being the heavier of the two, Kent, throwing his body backward and down,
could not lift him clear of the ground. Strain and strive to the
uttermost, the sailor's feet still stuck to the floor and sustained a
part of his weight. The remaining portion was supported by the point of
contact just under his chin. Failing to swing him clear, Kent clung on,
resolved to slowly throttle him or force him to tell what he had done
with the hoard. But the Man with the Gash would not throttle. Five,
ten, fifteen minutes passed, and at the end of that time, in despair,
Kent let his prisoner down.

"Well," he remarked, wiping away the sweat, "if you won't hang you'll
shoot. Some men wasn't born to be hanged, anyway."

"An' it's a pretty mess as you'll make o' this 'ere cabin floor."
Cardegee was fighting for time. "Now, look 'ere, I'll tell you wot we
do; we'll lay our 'eads 'longside an' reason together. You've lost some
dust. You say as 'ow I know, an' I say as 'ow I don't. Let's get a
hobservation an' shape a course--"