ill-ease as he adjusted the bundles and measured the commodities. He
had the whole of the gear spread out on the floor of the skoff kia
when a voice accosted him.

"You needn't bother no more, Jack," it said softly.

A man tiptoed in. He was short and lightly built, and carried a
sporting rifle in his hand. His reddish moustache was draggled with
dew and his clothes were soaked in it. He looked at Mills with
gleeful blue eyes.

"Where's Frenchy?" he asked softly.

Mills labored to express surprise. "What're you talkin' about?" he
demanded loudly.

"Don't shout, blast yer!" whispered the other vehemently. "We saw yer
go up 'ere together, Jack, and nobody ain't gone away since. There's
five of us, Jack, and we want that swine--we want 'im bad."

"What for?" asked Mills desperately, without lowering his voice.

The other made an impatient gesture for silence, but his words were
arrested by a clamor in the yard. There were shouts and curses and
the sound of blows.

"We've got him, Charley," shouted some one triumphantly.

The smaller man rushed out, and Mills followed swiftly. There was a
blackness of moving forms in the open, and some one struck a match.