Later on, when it was quite dark, Cashel sat in a spacious kitchen
at the lodge, thinking. His companion, who had laid his coat aside,
was at the fire, smoking, and watching a saucepan that simmered
there. He broke the silence by remarking, after a glance at the
clock, "Time to go to roost."

"Time to go to the devil," said Cashel. "I am going out."

"Yes, and get a chill. Not if I know it you don't."

"Well, go to bed yourself, and then you won't know it. I want to
take a walk round the place."

"If you put your foot outside that door to-night Lord Worthington
will lose his five hundred pounds. You can't lick any one in fifteen
minutes if you train on night air. Get licked yourself more likely."

"Will you bet two to one that I don't stay out all night and knock
the Flying Dutchman out of time in the first round afterwards? Eh?"

"Come," said Mellish, coaxingly; "have some common-sense. I'm
advising you for your good."

"Suppose I don't want to be advised for my good. Eh? Hand me over
that lemon. You needn't start a speech; I'm not going to eat it."

"Blest if he ain't rubbing his 'ands with it!" exclaimed Mellish,
after watching him for some moments. "Why, you bloomin' fool, lemon
won't 'arden your 'ands. Ain't I took enough trouble with them?"