"I have no men."
Pierre looked up at the wall.
"Throng has a good Snider there," he said. "Bosh! Throng can't go."
The old man coughed and strained.
"If it wasn't--only-half a lung, and I could carry the boneset 'long with
us."
Pierre slid off the table, came to the old man, and, taking him by the
arms, pushed him gently into a chair. "Sit down; don't be a fool,
Throng," he said. Then he turned to Halby: "You're a magistrate--
make me a special constable; I'll go, monsieur le capitaine--of no
company."
Halby stared. He knew Pierre's bravery, his ingenuity and daring. But
this was the last thing he expected: that the malicious, railing little
half-breed would work with him and the law. Pierre seemed to understand
his thoughts, for he said: "It is not for you. I am sick for adventure,
and then there is mademoiselle--such a finger she has for a ven'son
pudding."
Without a word Halby wrote on a leaf in his notebook, and presently
handed the slip to Pierre. "That's your commission as a special
constable," he said, "and here's the seal on it." He handed over a
pistol.
Pierre raised his eyebrows at it, but Halby continued: "It has the
Government mark. But you'd better bring Throng's rifle too."
Throng sat staring at the two men, his hands nervously shifting on his
knees. "Tell Liddy," he said, "that the last batch of bread was sour--
Duc ain't no good-an' that I ain't had no relish sence she left.
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