'
'But there are other careers,' said Racksole, who was really anxious
to lame his ex-waiter by means of a judiciously-aimed bullet.
'There are other careers.'
'The Customs is my career,' said Hazell, 'so let's have no shooting.
We'll wait about a bit; he can't escape. You can have my skewer if
you like' - and he gave Racksole his searching instrument. 'And
you can do what you please, provided you do it neatly and don't
make a row over it.'
For a few moments the four men were passive in the boat,
surrounded by swirling mist, with black water beneath them, and
towering above them a half-loaded barge with a desperate and
resourceful man on board. Suddenly the mist parted and shrivelled
away in patches, as though before the breath of some monster. The
sky was visible; it was a clear sky, and the moon was shining. The
transformation was just one of those meteorological quick-changes
which happen most frequently on a great river.
'That's a sight better,' said the fat man. At the same moment a head
appeared over the edge of the barge. It was Jules' face - dark,
sinister and leering.
'Is it Mr Racksole in that boat?' he inquired calmly; 'because if so,
let Mr Racksole step up. Mr Racksole has caught me, and he can
have me for the asking. Here I am.' He stood up to his full height
on the barge, tall against the night sky, and all the occupants of the
boat could see that he held firmly clasped in his right hand a short
dagger.
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