But Petit was a true criminal—he only killed when he thought it necessary. It is the act of a lunatic, he had often explained to his fellows, to do otherwise. Why make evidence against oneself without reason. The career of the true professional was a game in which he played his life and liberty against Society and the Law. He could not, therefore, afford to throw away a chance. But if any of his crimes had been discovered—if these strangers in the boat were come to arrest him—of course there would no longer be any need for caution.
“Zese men in ze boad,” he growled in a low guttural, “know you, eh? Spik me visout untruth,” he added, “else——”
The knife in his hand was sufficient termination for the sentence.
“Yes,” said the latter, looking right into Petit’s eyes. “I know ’em both. One’s name’s Joe Saunders, an’ the other cove’s Dan Creed. They’re duck shooters.”
“Shooters,” interposed Dave, with a quivering lip and an exaggerated expression of veracity. “They go shooting ducks in the swamps for the market, and pigeons.”
“Yes,” observed Tom, “they come up the river a piece. That cove in the nose of the boat, he’s got a bit of a farm up there.”
“Yes,” he went on; “that’s Dan Saunders.”
“Joe Saunders, I mean,” replied Dave, correcting himself quickly; “an’ the other cove’s Dan MacCreedy.”
It would have delighted him very much to punch Dave’s head.
“That’s what I said—Dan Creed,” resumed Dave. “We know ’em both.”
The sportsmen were trooping along the track, gun in hand, with their eyes in the air looking up at the fig-trees, watching for pigeons.
It had been Dan Creyton’s idea, that expedition. He wanted to get George out in the open air, away from his troubles, to occupy his mind in some sport. There is no medicine like this for the mind and nerves, and already George was forgetting the black cloud which had recently lowered upon him. The primal instinct of the hunter can always be reverted to by a sane man, whom civilization has in one way or another made sick. An hour’s fishing, by some shady pool, under the open sky is worth more than a bottle of drugs.
They strode along in the cool morning air, making little noise on the jungle path, carpeted with leaves. Closer and closer they came to that group of three in the scrub.