About him, causing his figure to appear gigantic, his shadow grotesque,
the yellow gleam of the light shone in spectral coloring. Winston set
his teeth determinedly, and noiselessly cocked his revolver. The man
was already almost upon him, a black, shapeless bulk, like some unreal
shadow. Then the younger stepped suddenly forth into the open, the two
meeting face to face. The startled foreman stared incredulous, bending
forward as though a ghost confronted him, his teeth showing between
parted lips.
"Drop that club!" commanded Winston coldly, the gleam of an uplifted
steel barrel in the other's eyes. "Lively, my man; this is a
hair-trigger."
"What the hell--"
"Drop that club! We 'll discuss this case later. There--no, up with
your hands; both of them. Turn around slowly; ah, I see you don 't
tote a gun down here. So much the better, for now we can get along to
business with fewer preliminaries."
He kicked the released pick-helve to one side out of sight in the
darkness, his watchful eyes never straying from the Irishman's face.
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