O’Flynn was not very keen about it; but the Jesuit’s visit had stirred him up, and he offered less opposition to the unusual call to activity than the Colonel expected.

When at last he was left alone with the sleeping man, the Kentuckian put on a couple more logs, and sat down to wait.  At three he got up, swung the crane round so that the darting tongues of flame could lick the hot-water pot, and then he measured out some coffee.  In a quarter of an hour the cabin was full of the fragrance of good Mocha.

The Colonel sat and waited.  Presently he poured out a little coffee, and drank it slowly, blissfully, with half-closed eyes.  But when he had set the granite cup down again, he stood up alert, like a man ready for business.  Mac had been asleep nearly three hours.  The others wouldn’t be long now.

Well, if they came prematurely, they must go to the Little Cabin for awhile.  The Colonel shot the bar across door and jamb for the second time that day.  Mac stirred and lifted himself on his elbow, but he wasn’t really awake.

“Potts,” he said huskily.

The Colonel made no sound.  “Potts, measure me out two fingers, will you?  Cabin’s damn cold.”

No answer.

Mac roused himself, muttering compliments for Potts.  When he had bundled himself out over the side of the bunk, he saw the Colonel seemingly dozing by the fire.

He waited a moment.  Then, very softly, he made his way to the farther end of the swing-shelf.

The Colonel opened one eye, shut it, and shuffled in a sleepy sort of way.  Mac turned sharply back to the fire.

The Colonel opened his eyes and yawned.

“I made some cawfee a little while back.  Have some?”

“No.”

“Better; it’s A 1.”

“Where’s Potts?”

“Gone out for a little.  Back soon.”  He poured out some of the strong, black decoction, and presented it to his companion.  “Just try it.  Finest cawfee in the world, sir.”

Mac poured it down without seeming to bother about tasting it.

They sat quite still after that, till the Colonel said meditatively: 

“You and I had a little account to settle, didn’t we?”

“I’m ready.”

But neither moved for several moments.

“See here, Mac:  you haven’t been ill or anything like that, have you?”

“No.”  There was no uncertain note in the answer; if anything, there was in it more than the usual toneless decision.  Mac’s voice was machine-made—­as innocent of modulation as a buzz-saw, and with the same uncompromising finality as the shooting of a bolt.  “I’m ready to stand up against any man.”

“Good!” interrupted the Colonel.  “Glad o’ that, for I’m just longing to see you stand up—­”

Mac was on his feet in a flash.

“You had only to say so, if you wanted to see me stand up against any man alive.  And when I sit down again it’s my opinion one of us two won’t be good-lookin’ any more.”