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As they neared their objective the sergeant slackened his team down to a walking pace. Suddenly Redmond tongue-clucked to himself in absent fashion. The sound of it roused Yorke out of the sombre reverie into which he had fallen. "What's up, Red?" queried he waggishly, in a low voice, "dreaming you're taking that dive again, or what?" "No!" muttered George abstractly in the same key.
The horses cared for, and supper over, Yorke and Redmond lay back on their cots and blaguè'd each other wearily anent their mutual ill-luck. Slavin, critically conning over a lengthy crime-report on the case that he had prepared for headquarters, flung his composition on the table and leant back dejectedly in his chair. "Hoboes?" quoth he, darkly, and tongue-clucked in dismal fashion. "Eyah!
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