Ejaculations flew like chips, spattering over the Irishman's occasional groans, and Dick kept out of range until a shout from O'Hara brought him over to see part of the shining contents of that bag ranged along the floor.

"Kape him off with them saws," roared O'Hara. "Set him cuttin' lumber tu build a house. Begorra, he has machinery enough wid him. Och, Corp'ral, what did ye let him intu here wid all that tu him for?"

"C'est necessaire," shrilled de Choiseaux, and spilt the odour of chloroform into the air.

Grey and sweating with pain O'Hara leaned over, selected a wooden mallet from beside the bunk, and jerked it with under-arm swing into the shining array.

"Maybe that'll tache him to putt a dacent men tu slape so he can walk off wid his appendums an' things," he said. "Just tell him that if I'm dyin' I'm dyin' in wan piece, Corp'ral, dear."

"Il est fol," said de Choiseaux, advancing with the sponge.

Dick glanced from the brisk-stepping little man with the erect shock of hair to the heavily-breathing giant on the bunk, and the grim humour of these man-made limitations which will not untangle even with Death as interpreter tickled him to something near laughter. Then he assaulted the amazed de Choiseaux in a pure French that left him sputtering, and stooped again to O'Hara.

"Be easy, O'Hara," he said. "He is not going to touch you."

There was silence. Then O'Hara said:

"What du that mane?"

"I fancy you know," said Dick, with dropped voice. And the whole of him was alert if sudden action were needed.

One shudder ran through O'Hara. Then he burst into a blaze of wrath.

"What duthat——want wid cuttin' me up, thin? What did he mane, the blood-suckin' little skunk? Howly mother, lind me the loan ov him till I wring the little wry neck ov him——"

"Delirium," crowed de Choiseaux, bobbing into range. "Parblieu! I expected it."