t he, at least, may come out of
it."

Renoux shrugged:

"Perhaps. But they are brave, these Irish--brave enough without a
skinful of whiskey. And with it they are entirely reckless. No sane
man can foretell what they will attempt." He turned to include Alost
and Souchez: "I think there can be only one plan of action for us,
gentlemen. We should string out here along the edges of the woods.
When they leave the tavern we should run for the landing and get into
the shack that stands there--a rickety sort of boat-house on piles,"
he explained to Westmore and Barres. "There is the path through the
woods." He pointed to the left, where a trodden way bisected the
wood-road. "It runs straight to the landing," he added.

Alost, at a sign from him, started off westward through the woods.
Souchez followed. Renoux leaned back against a big walnut tree and
signified that he would remain there.

So Barres and Westmore moved forward to the right, very cautiously,
circling the rear of the old brick hotel where a line of ruined
horse-sheds and a rickety barn screened them from view of the hotel's
south windows.

So close to the tavern did they pass that they could hear the noisy
singing very distinctly and see through the open windows the movement
of shadowy figures under the paling light of a ceiling lamp.

Westmore ventured nearer in hopes of getting a better view from the
horse-sheds; and Barres crept after him through the rank growth of
swale and weeds.

"Look at them!" whispered Westmore. "They're in a sort of uniform,
aren't they?"

"They've got on green jackets and stable-caps! Do you see that stack
of rifles in the corner of the tap-room?"

"There's Skeel!" muttered Westmore, "the man in the long cloak sitting
by the fireplace with his face buried in his hands!"

"He looks utterly done in," whispered Barres. "Probably he can't
manage that gang and he begins to realise it. Hark! You can hear every
word of that thing they're singing."

Every word, indeed, was a yell or a shout, and distinct enough at
that. They were roaring out "Green Jackets":

"_Oh, Irish maids love none but those
Who wear the jackets green!_"

--all lolling and carousing around a slopping wet table--all save
Murtagh Skeel, who, seated near the empty fireplace with his white
face buried between his fingers, never stirred from his attitude of
stony immobility.

"There's Soane!" whispered Barres, "that man who just got up!"

It was Soane,