ve.--"Come here, for a bit."

Both men leaned from the window into the hot, airless night. A Chinese
rebeck wailed, monotonous and nasal. Heywood pointed at the moon, which
now hung clearly above the copper haze.

"What do you see there?" he asked dryly.

"The moon," replied his friend, wondering.

"Good.--You know, I was afraid you might just see Rudie Hackh."

The rebeck wailed a long complaint before he added:--

"If I didn't like you fairly well--The point is--Good old Cynthia! That
bally orb may not see one of us to-morrow night, next week, next
quarter. 'Through this same Garden, and for us in vain.' Every man Jack.
Let me explain. It will make you better company."

CHAPTER XII

THE WAR BOARD

"Rigmarole?" drawled Heywood, and abstained from glancing at Chantel.
"Dare say. However, Gilly, their rigmarole _may_ mean business. On that
supposition, I made my notes urgent to you chaps."

"Quite right," said Mr. Forrester, tugging his gray moustache, and
studying the floor. "Obviously. Rigmarole or not, your plan is
thoroughly sound: stock one house, and if the pinch comes, fortify."

Chantel drummed on Heywood's long table, and smiled quaintly, with eyes
which roved out at window, and from mast to bare mast of the few small
junks that lay moored against the distant bank. He bore himself, to-day,
like a lazy cock of the walk. The rest of the council, Nesbit, Teppich,
Sturgeon, Kempner, and the great snow-headed padre, surrounded the table
with heat-worn, thoughtful faces. When they looked up, their eyes went
straight to Heywood at the head; so that, though deferring to his
elders, the youngest man plainly presided.

Chantel turned suddenly, merrily, his teeth flashing in a laugh.

"If we are then afraid, let us all take a jonc down the river," he
scoffed, "or the next vessel for Hongkong!"

Gilly's tired, honest eyes saw only the plain statement.

"Impossible." He shook his bullet head. "We can't run away from a rumor,
you know. Can we, now? The women, perhaps. But we should lose face no
end--horribly."

"Let's come to facts," urged Heywood. "Arms, for example. What have we?
To my knowledge, one pair of good rifles, mine and Sturgeon's.
Ammunition--uncertain, but limited. Two revolvers: my Webley.450, and
that little thing of Nesbit's, which is not man-stopping. Shot-guns?
Every one but you, padre: fit only for spring snipe, anyway, or bamboo
partridge. Hackh has just taken over, from this hous