An' lissen here, you swamp bum, you keep outta my
way--see? I don't care if you were one of Mike Flanigan's boys; that
don't cut no ice with me." This truculent warning must have been
addressed to an unseen companion on the same stair level. The listeners
below heard a faint sound which might have marked a collision and then
the hiss of swamp French spoken hurriedly and angrily.
"What're you gonna do now, Boss?"
The light half-way down the stairs paused. "There is some way of opening
that panel--"
"An' we gotta find it. All right, all right. But tell me how."
"I don't know whether it will be necessary to open it--from this side."
"What d'ya mean?"
"Use that thick skull of yours, Red. Doors swing two ways, don't they?
They can be used either to go in or to go out."
"Got it!" The thick voice was oily with flattering approval. "We can get
out this way--"
"Smart work, Red. Did you think that out all by yourself?" asked the
other contemptuously. "Yes, we can come out this way when"--his voice
was sharp with purpose--"we are finished. Send one of these swampers
down to the levee where the men are working. As long as this flood keeps
rising we're safe. Then the other three of us will go for the house. We
may be seen that way, but there's no use spending any more time here
playing tick-tack-toe on that wood up there. We locate what we want, and
if we're cornered we can come out through here to the bayou.
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