“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,” said I.

“Come over here, Ramsay,” orders Radisson.  “That’s two.  Go on!  Five more!”

The soldiers fell to laughing and Ben to pulling at his mustache.

“That money-bag of a La Chesnaye next,” mutters Ben.  “He’s lady enough to faint at first shot.”

“There’ll be no first shot.  Come, La Chesnaye!  Three.  Go on!  Go on, Ben!  Your wits work slow!”

“Allemand, the pilot!  He is drunk most of the time.”

“Four,” counts M. Radisson.  “Come over here, Allemand!  You’re drunk most of the time, like Ben.  Go on!”

“Godefroy, the English trader—­he sulks—­he’s English—­he’ll do!”

“Five,” laughs M. Radisson.

And for the remaining two, Ben Gillam chose a scullion lad and a wretched little stowaway, who had kept hidden under hatches till we were too far out to send him back.  At the last choice our men shouted and clapped and stamped and broke into snatches of song about conquerors.