"I'm
sick of mud-throwing," he muttered.
"George Fleetwood!" Mornway exclaimed. He had advanced toward his
friend, and the two stood confronting each other, already oblivious
of Shackwell's presence.
"It's not only that, of course. I've been frightfully hard-worked.
My health has given way--"
"Since yesterday?"
Fleetwood forced a smile. "My dear fellow, what a slave-driver you
are! Hasn't a man the right to take a rest?"
"Not a soldier on the eve of battle. You have never failed me
before."
"I don't want to fail you now. But it isn't the eve of
battle--you're in, and that's the main thing."
"The main thing at present is that you promised to stay in with me,
and that I must have your real reason for breaking your word."
Fleetwood made a deprecatory movement. "My dear Governor, if you
only knew it, I'm doing you a service in backing out."
"A service--why?"
"Because I'm hated--because the Lead Trust wants my blood, and will
have yours too if you appoint me."
"Ah, that's the real reason, then--you're afraid of the 'Spy'?"
"Afraid--?"
The Governor continued to speak with dry deliberation.
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