They slouched back to their cards and their bottle. It had been bad enough to find them sullen and inhospitable, but as the liquor stimulated their unhealthy imaginations it was worse to feel the covert looks stealing now and again toward them. Joyce, sleeping fitfully in the arms of Moya, woke with a start to see them drinking together at the table.
"I don't like them. I'm afraid of them," she whispered.
"We mustn't let them know it," Moya whispered in her ear.
For an hour she had been racked by fears, had faced unflinchingly their low laughs and furtive glances.
Now one of the men spoke. "From Goldbanks?"
"Yes."
"You don't live there."
"No. We belong to the English party--Mr. Verinder's friends."
"Oh, Verinder's friends. And which of you is his particular friend?" The sneer was unmistakable.
"We started out this afternoon for wild flowers and the storm caught us," Moya hurried on.
"So you're Verinder's friends, are you? Well, we don't think a whole lot of Mr. Verinder out here."
Moya knew now that the mention of Verinder's name had been a mistake. The relations between the mine owners and the workmen in the camp were strained, and as a foreign non-resident capitalist the English millionaire was especially obnoxious. Moreover, his supercilious manners had not helped to endear him since his arrival.
The man called Dave got to his feet with a reckless laugh. "No free lodgings here for Mr. Verinder's friends. You'n got to pay for your keep, my dears."
Miss Dwight looked at him with unflinching eyes which refused to understand his meaning. "We'll pay whatever you ask and double the amount after we reach camp."
"Don't want your dirty money. Gi' us a kiss, lass. That's fair pay. We ain't above kissing Verinder's friends if he is a rotten slave driver."
Moya rose to her slender height, and the flash of courage blazed in her eyes.
"Sit down," she ordered.
The man stopped in his tracks, amazed at the resolution of the slim tall girl.
"Go on, Dave. Don't let her bluff you," his companion urged.
The miner laughed and moved forward.
"You coward, to take advantage of two girls driven to you by the storm. I didn't think the man lived that would do it," panted Moya.
"You'n got a bit to learn, miss. Whad's the use of gettin' your Dutch up. I ain't good enough for 'ee, like enough."
The girl held up a hand. "Listen!"
They could hear only the wild roar of the storm outside and the low sobs of Joyce as she lay crouched on the bed.
"Well?" he growled. "I'm listenin'. What, then?"