A vision of the huge, sinister, crouching figure seemed to rise up in Redmond’s mind—­the great, clutching, simian hands.

“In India,” continued Yorke, “we’d say he’d got a touch of the ’Dulalli Tap.’  The man doesn’t know his own strength.  I was taking an awful chance—­getting his goat like that last night.  It’s a wonder he didn’t kill me.  He’s man-handled me pretty badly at times.  Oh, well!  I guess it’s been coming to me all right.  Neither of us has ever dreamt of going squalling to the Orderly-room over our . . . differences.  I don’t think Burke’s ever taken the trouble to ‘peg’ a man in his life.  Not his way.  ‘I must take shteps!’ says he, and ‘I will take shteps!’ and when he starts in softly rubbing those awful great grub-hooks he calls hands—­together! . . . well! you want to look out.”

Lighting a cigarette he resumed reminiscently:  “They were a tough crowd to handle up in the Yukon.  The devil himself ’d have been scared to butt in to that ‘Soapy Smith’ gang; but, by gum! they were afraid of Slavin.  He doesn’t drink much now, but he did then—­mighty few that didn’t—­up there—­and I tell you, even our own fellows got a bit leery of him when he used to start in ‘trailing his coat.’  They were glad when he ’came outside.’  That’s one of the reasons why he’s shoved out on a prairie detachment.  He wouldn’t do at all for the Post.  He never reports in there more than he has to—­dead scared of the old man, who’s about the only soul he is afraid of on earth.  The O.C.’s awful sarcastic with him at times, and that gets Burke’s goat properly.  He sure does hate getting a choke-off from the old man.”

He grinned guiltily.  “That’s why he prefers to wash the family linen strictly at home—­what little there is.  But, sarcasm and all, the O.C. gives him credit for being onto his job—­and it’s coming to him, too.  He’s quick acting and he’s got the Criminal Code well-nigh by heart.  Regular blood-hound when he starts in working up a case.”

He yawned, and rising stiffly to his feet stretched his cramped limbs.  “We-ll!  Reddy, my giddy young hopeful!—­Now we’ve fallen on each other’s ruddy necks and kissed and wept and had a heart-to-heart talk we’ll—­”

“Aw, quit making game, Yorkey!  Is it a go?  You know what I said?”

Strangely compelling, Yorke found that bruised, eager, wistful young face, with its earnest, honest eyes.  “All right!” he agreed, with languid bonhomie.  “You’ve certainly earned the office of Dictator, and, as I remarked—­we really have quite a lot in common.  Mind, though, you don’t repent of your bargain.  One thing!” the curved, defiant nostrils dilated faintly, “Seems the world always has use for us runagates in one capacity.  It’s just the likes of us that compose the rank and file of most of the Empire’s military police forces.  Who makes the best M.P. man, executing duty, say, in a critical life-and-death hazard?  The cautious, upright, model young man, with a tender regard for a whole skin and a Glorious Future?  Or the poor devil who’s lost all, and doesn’t care a d——­n?  We tackle the world’s dangerous, dirty criminal work and—­swank and all—­Society don’t want to forget it.”