When Carrigan went out on deck, the half-breed was sweating from his exertion at the stern sweep.  He looked at the agent de police who was going to fight him, perhaps tomorrow or the next day.  There was a change in Carrigan.  He was not the same man who had gone into the cabin an hour before, and the fact impressed itself upon Bateese.  There was something in his appearance that held back the loose talk at the end of Concombre’s tongue.  And so it was Carrigan himself who spoke first.

“When will this man St. Pierre come to see me?” he demanded.  “If he doesn’t come soon, I shall go to him.”

For an instant Concombre’s face darkened.  Then, as he bent over the sweep with his great back to David, he chuckled audibly, and said: 

“Would you go, m’sieu?  Ah—­it is le malade d’amour over there in the cabin.  Surely you would not break in upon their love-making?”

Bateese did not look over his shoulder, and so he did not see the hot flush that gathered in David’s face.  But David was sure he knew it was there and that Concombre had guessed the truth of matters.  There was a sly note in his voice, as if he could not quite keep to himself his exultation that beauty and bright eyes had played a clever trick on this man who, if his own judgment had been followed, would now be resting peacefully at the bottom of the river.  It was the final stab to Carrigan.  His muscles tensed.  For the first time he felt the desire to shoot a naked fist into the grinning mouth of Concombre Bateese.  He laid a hand on the half-breed’s shoulder, and Bateese turned about slowly.  He saw what was in the other’s eyes.

“Until this moment I have not known what a great pleasure it will be to fight you, Bateese,” said David quietly.  “Make it tomorrow—­ in the morning, if you wish.  Take word to St. Pierre that I will make him a great wager that I win, a gamble so large that I think he will be afraid to cover it.  For I don’t think much of this St. Pierre of yours, Bateese.  I believe him to be a big-winded bluff, like yourself.  And also a coward.  Mark my word, he will be so much afraid that he will not accept my wager!”

Bateese did not answer.  He was looking over David’s shoulder.  He seemed not to have heard what the other had said, yet there had come a sudden gleam of exultation in his eyes, and he replied, still gazing toward the raft,

“Diantre, m’sieu coq de bruyere may keep ze beeg word in hees mout’!  See!—­St. Pierre, he ees comin’ to answer for himself.  Mon Dieu, I hope he does not wring ze leetle rooster’s neck, for zat would spoil wan great, gran’ fight tomorrow!”

David turned toward the big raft.  At the distance which separated them he could make out the giant figure of St. Pierre Boulain getting into a canoe.  The humped-up form already in that canoe he knew was the Broken Man.  He could not see Marie-Anne.

Very lightly Bateese touched his arm.  “M’sieu will go into ze cabin,” he suggested softly.  “If somet’ing happens, it ees bes’ too many eyes do not see it.  You understan’, m’sieu agent de police?”