led out.

Ben wished that he might be cursed if any man could rest well on bare
boards rimed with frost like curdled milk.

"Cheer up, man! Cheer up!" encourages Radisson. "There's to be a
capture to-day!"

"A capture!" reiterates Ben, glowering black across the table and doffing
his cap with bad grace.

"Aye, I said a capture! Egad, lad, one fort and one ship are prize
enough for one day!"

"Sink my soul," flouts Gillam, looking insolently down the table to the
rows of ragged sailors sitting beyond our officers, "if every man o' your
rough-scuff had the nine lives of a cat, their nine lives would be shot
down before they reached our palisades!"

"Is it a wager?" demands M. Radisson.

"A wager--ship and fort and myself to boot if you win!"

"Done!" cries La Chesnaye.

"Ah, well," calculates M. Radisson, "the ship and the fort are worth
something! When we've taken them, Ben can go. Nine lives for each man,
did you say?"

"A hundred, if you like," boasts the New Englander, letting fly a
broadside of oaths at the Frenchman's slur. "A hundred men with nine
lives, if you like! We've powder for all!"

"Ben!" M. Radisson rose. "Two men are in the fort now! Pick me out
seven more! That will make nine! With those nine I own your fort by
nightfall or I set you free!"

"Done!" shouts Ben. "Every man here a witness!"

"Choose!" insists M. Radisson.

Sailors and soldiers were all on their feet gesticulating and laughing;
for Godefroy was translating into French as fast as the leaders talked.

"Choose!" urges M. Radisson, leaning over to snuff out the great
breakfast candle with bare fingers as if his hand were iron.

"Shiver my soul, then," laughs Ben, in high feather, "let the first be
that little Jack Sprat of a half-frozen Battle! He's loyal to me!"

"Good!" smiles M. Radisson. "Come over here, Jack Battle."

Jack Battle jumped over the table and stood behind M. Radisson as second
lieutenant, Ben's eyes gaping to see Jack's disguise of bushranger like
himself.

"Go on," orders M. Radisson, "choose whom you will!"

The soldiers broke into ringing cheers.

"Devil take you, Radisson," ejaculates Ben familiarly, "such cool
impudence would chill the Nick!"

"That is as it may be," retorts Radisson. "Choose! We must be off!"

Again the soldiers cheered.

"Well, there's that turncoat of a Stanhope with his fine airs. I'd
rather see him shot next than any one else!"

"Thank you, Ben," sa