athetically, with the devil's banter
in his voice.

XVIII

THE BATTLE

Mallow spun around, stared for a moment, then grinned evilly. "Here's
our crow at last, Craig."

"Speaking of birds of ill-repute, the crow passes his admiration to the
kite and the vulture." Warrington spoke coolly.

"Hey, boy; the _chit_!" called Mallow.

"No, no," protested Warrington; "by all means finish the game. I've
all the time in the world."

Mallow looked at Craig, who scowled back. He was beginning to grow
weary at the sight of Warrington, bobbing up here, bobbing up there,
always with a subtle menace.

"What's the odds?" said Mallow jovially.

"Only twenty points to go. Your shot."

Craig chalked his cue and scored a run of five. Mallow ran three,
missed and swore amiably. Craig got the balls into a corner and
finished his string.

"That'll be five pounds," he said.

"And fifty quid for me," added Warrington, smiling, though his eyes
were as blue and hard as Artic ice.

"I'll see you comfortably broiled in hell," replied Mallow, as he
tossed five sovereigns to Craig. "Now, what else is on your mind?"

Warrington took out the cigar-band and exhibited it. "I found that in
my room last night. You're one of the few, Mallow, who smoke them out
here. He was a husky Chinese, but not husky enough. Makes you turn a
bit yellow; eh, Craig, you white-livered cheat? You almost got my
money-belt, but almost is never quite. The letter of credit is being
reissued. It might have been robbery; it might have been just
deviltry; just for the sport of breaking a man. Anyhow, you didn't
succeed. Suppose we take a little jaunt out to where they're building
the new German Lloyd dock? There'll be no one working at this time of
day. Plenty of shade."

For a moment the click of the balls on the other tallies was the only
sound. Craig broke the tableau by reaching for his glass of whisky,
which he emptied. He tried to assume a nonchalant air, but his hand
shook as he replaced the glass on the tabouret. It rolled off to the
floor and tinkled into pieces.

"Nerves a bit rocky, eh?" Warrington laughed sardonically.

"You're screeching in the wrong jungle, Parrot, old top," said Mallow,
who, as he did not believe in ghosts, was physically nor morally afraid
of anything. "Though, you have my word for it that I'd like to see you
lose every cent of your damned oil fluke."

"Don't doubt it."

"But," Mallow went on, "