The place which Bassett had entered was a squalid little enclosure, eight or nine feet square, with the floor of the slaughter-house for a roof, rough slabs for walls, and the earth of the river bank for a floor. A rude fireplace of loose bricks had been built in one corner, the smoke from which was conducted up through a stove-pipe into the empty slaughter-house above. A little pile of coal, stolen from a near-by coalyard, occupied one corner, and a dirty bed, formed by some boards thrown across two boxes, another. Three boxes took the place of chairs and table, and another box nailed against the wall, served as a cupboard. The floor was littered with empty cans and whiskey bottles and scraps of refuse, and was slippery and slimy with dampness from the river.

Hummel placed the candle on one of the boxes and then turned to his visitor, his face more loathsome than ever. Face, hands and clothing were caked with dirt. His hands were trembling as though with palsy, and it was evident that he was on the verge of delirium tremens.

Without waiting for him to speak, Bassett, seeing his condition at a glance, drew from his pocket one of the bottles he had just purchased, and held it out to him.

Hummel, with a low exclamation of relief and joy, seized it, knocked off the head, and snatching up a dirty tumbler, filled it from the bottle and drained the last drop. Then he set bottle and glass down beside him with a sigh of satisfaction.

“That’s better,” he said. “You ain’t been treatin’ me right, Rafe. You oughtn’t to let me run out.”

“Run out!” Bassett repeated. “Good Lord! I’ll have to start a distillery t’ keep you from runnin’ out! I never see a man who could swill whiskey like you kin—a gallon a day ain’t nothin’! Why, you’re a reg’lar tank, with no bottom, at that!”

Hummel glared at him evilly, then poured out another glass full of the liquor and swallowed it.

“What’s that to you?” he demanded. “You know what the bargain was—an’ I’m ready to do my part whenever you say the word.”

“An’ I’m ready t’ do mine,” declared Bassett, and drew the other bottle from his pocket and set it on the ground. “Is that enough fer to-night?”

“Yes, I guess so,” said Hummel, sullenly. “But I’m gittin’ tired of settin’ here in this hogpen, drinkin’ myself t’ death. I’ve got some little spark of decency left in me, though you mayn’t think it. Why don’t we do something?”

“We’ll do something to-night!” said Bassett, with sudden fury. “Where’s the gang?”

“They’ve weakened,” said Hummel, glancing sullenly at the other. “Since them fellers were crimped at Cincinnati fer that stock-yards business, they won’t do nothin’.”

“They won’t, hey?” cried Bassett. “Then they don’t git no pay. They’ve got all o’ my money they’re goin’ t’ git!”

“They know that!” sneered Hummel. “It wasn’t so awful much, anyway. They skipped out to-night.”

“Skipped out?”

“Yes—caught a freight back to Cinci.”

Bassett pondered this a moment, with knitted brows.

“All right,” he said, at last. “We don’t need ’em. But I didn’t think any friends o’ yourn would be so white-livered.”

“They ain’t white-livered, but they don’t like t’ git the double cross.”

“Who give ’em the double cross?” demanded Bassett, threateningly. “Do you mean me?”

“Well,” replied Hummel, avoiding his eye, “I ain’t namin’ no names. But somebody peached on them stock-yards fellers.”

“It wasn’t me. Why, just because I stood up fer ’em t’-night, I got fired out o’ the brotherhood by that smooth snake of a Simpson.”

“Got fired out, did you?” queried Hummel, his eyes lighting with an evil glint of satisfaction. “Then the jig’s up?”

“No, it ain’t up—not by a good deal. Rafe Bassett has got a lot o’ fight in him yet. But first I’m goin’ t’ git even. Is everything ready?”

“Yes—been ready fer three days.”

“Kin we two carry it?”

“I kin carry it myself. It ain’t heavy.”

“An’ you’re sure it’ll work?”

“I made it—an’ it ain’t the first I’ve made by a blame sight.”

“All right,” said Bassett, looking at his companion with something like respect. “Come on, then,” and he rose and buttoned his coat.

But Hummel sat still. His eyes were burning with a strange fire, and Bassett looked at him with some uneasiness. He had never been quite sure of Hummel; he regarded him a good deal as he might have done a deadly snake which he was keeping in captivity to use against an enemy, but always with the feeling that the snake might at any time turn against himself.

“Well,” he added, after a moment, “ain’t you comin’?”

“Not just yet,” answered Hummel, calmly. “I want t’ talk t’ you a little, first. Set down.”

“We’d better be gittin’ along,” Bassett protested, but he sat down nevertheless.

“Now,” proceeded Hummel, deliberately, “you know after we pull this thing off, I’ll want to git away, an’ git away quick. This won’t be a healthy neighbourhood fer either of us. I don’t want t’ have t’ wait around fer you, an’ mebbe miss you, at that.”

“Nobody wants you to,” broke in Bassett impatiently. “What is it you’re drivin’ at, anyway?”

“I’m drivin’ at this,” said Hummel. “I want my pay here an’ now.”

Bassett sat for a moment contemplating him with hostile eyes.

“Half now an’ half afterwards,” he said, at last.

“No, sir!” Hummel objected positively. “Here an’ now, all of it. Else I don’t go.”

“But look here,” Bassett protested, “suppose I do give you the money, how do I know you’ll do your part?”

“Well,” said Hummel, grimly, “I guess you’ll have t’ trust me. But don’t be afeerd—I’ll do it, an’ do it right!”

There was nothing to do but yield—Bassett recognized that plainly enough, for Hummel, in his present mood, was not to be argued with; besides, his demand was reasonable enough. The liquor was turning him into a demon who would stop at nothing—the very thing which Bassett had counted on it doing—and he was anxious to get the plot under way before the inevitable reaction set in. So, reluctantly enough, for it represented the last not only of his savings but of his credit, Bassett put his hand in his pocket, drew out his wallet and slowly counted five ten-dollar bills into Hummel’s outstretched hand.

“There,” he said, with an oath, “I hope you’re satisfied.”

Hummel folded the bills up and thrust them into an inside pocket.

“I am,” he said; “an’ I’m ready whenever you are. But don’t think I’m doin’ this job fer this dirty money. I ain’t. I’ve got t’ have this t’ make my getaway, but I’m doin’ this t’ git even with that little snake of a chief dispatcher, an’ t’ show these corporations that there’s some people will stand up fer their rights. I’m an anarchist, I am,” he continued, growing more and more excited from minute to minute. “I’m—”

But Bassett had had enough of it, and his hand closed savagely upon the other’s arm.

“Cut it out!” he cried. “Don’t waste time in poppin’ off—do somethin’. Where’s the stuff?”

“Here it is,” said Hummel, and sprang toward the pile of coal in one corner. Clearing it away, he brought to light a box perhaps a foot square. He snapped open the lid, and took out a small tube about nine inches in length. “That’s a little one fer me, in case I need it,” he said, his eyes gleaming, and thrust it into his pocket. “They’ll never take me alive.”

“See here, Hummel,” protested Bassett, his face considerably paler than usual, “don’t you do nothin’ foolish. That’s dangerous stuff to have around you.”

“Oh, I know how t’ handle it! Better take a drink t’ keep up your nerve—you’ll need it!”

Bassett, whose hands were shaking slightly, silently acknowledged the wisdom of the advice and poured himself out a drink. Hummel waited till he had finished, then poured the remainder of the contents of the bottle into the glass, and drained it, throwing the empty bottle to join the others on the floor.

“You go ahead,” he said, “an’ wait fer me under the lower end of the freight platform. I’ll bring the stuff. We mustn’t be seen together.”

“All right,” Bassett assented, glad to get away from his dangerous neighbourhood, and he went out, closing the door after him.

Hummel picked up the full bottle of whiskey, and getting out a knife which had a corkscrew attachment, drew the cork. Then he replaced it lightly and put the bottle in his pocket.

“I’ll need that,” he said to himself, and then, blowing out the candle, he left the room and groped his way up the stairs and out of the slaughter-house, the mysterious box under his arm.

He chose an alley which led away from the track, and then another which crossed it at right angles, and at the end of five minutes came out opposite the freight-house. He had met no one, for the night was dark and windy, with a dash of rain now and then. He stood peering across the street at the freight-house, until he saw a guard pass the circle of light at the door and disappear around the corner of the building. Then, tucking the box more firmly under his arm, he crossed the street like a shadow and disappeared beneath the platform. He worked his way along to the end of it, and nearly fell over Bassett, who was sitting under the platform there awaiting him.

“For God’s sake, man, be careful!” Bassett whispered hoarsely, a cold sweat breaking out upon him at thought of what would happen if Hummel fell.

“Oh, I’m all right,” retorted Hummel, easily, and sat down beside the other, placing the box beside him. “Suppose I just drop this little feller right here,” he went on, pensively, taking the small tube from his pocket. “That’ll set off the big one, too, an’ I reckon there’d be considerable of a hole, without so much as a grease-spot left of you an’ me. What d’ you say to a jump into the next world, Rafe? We ain’t been much of a success in this one!”

“Now, see here, Hummel,” protested Bassett, savagely, the cold chills chasing each other up and down his spine, for he was not sure but that Hummel, in his desperate mood, was capable of carrying out his threat, “drop that nonsense. I’ve paid you t’ do certain work, an’ you’re goin’ t’ do it!”

“All right,” agreed the other, shortly. “I’ll plant the mine—”

He ceased abruptly as he heard the guard’s footsteps on the platform overhead; but the sound passed without pausing.

“I’ve got a fuse that burns fifteen minutes—plenty of time for a getaway. Good-bye, if I don’t see you again.”

“Good-bye,” answered Bassett. “But I’ll see you again all right.”

He listened while the other worked his way forward under the platform toward the freight-shed, and then, when the sound had died away, he stuck his head out from under the platform and looked around. The wind had risen and was singing through the wires overhead.

“What a night fer a fire!” he muttered. “I’ve got time—fifteen minutes, anyway—I’ll make a try fer it!”

A string of freight cars was drawn up beside the platform, and Bassett, crawling cautiously forth, peered into them, one after another. Some were empty, some were half-loaded, some were sealed ready to be sent east or west. Once he heard footsteps approaching and skulked beneath a car until they passed. Then he continued his quest, and at last, with a chuckle of satisfaction, found what he was looking for, yet scarcely expected to find—a car half-filled with barrels of oil. Evidently the work of unloading had been uncompleted at nightfall and the car had been left with the door only half-closed.

After a moment’s pause, to make certain that he was not observed, Bassett drew himself up into the car, then, grasping the edge of the door, he pulled it shut. Secure from observation, he struck a match, and, shading it with his hand, looked around. The barrels had been removed from the middle of the car, but were still stacked at each end. They were dripping with oil and little puddles stood upon the floor. Evidently the touch of a match would set the whole car aflame, and would start a fire which no water would extinguish. There were cars to right and left—and with that wind! He chuckled again as he thought of the result. He would show them whether Rafe Bassett was to be treated like a dog—insulted, kicked out—

He carefully extinguished the match, and then, after a moment’s thought, drew a newspaper from his pocket, and, unfolding it, twisted it into a long fuse. Then, lighting another match, he dabbled one end of the paper in a puddle of oil and pressed it down with his foot until it was sticking to the floor of the car. So intent was he on this that he failed to note that the match had burnt down to his fingers, and as the flame touched him, he involuntarily dropped it.

Instantly there was a flash and a roar and the whole car seemed to burst into flame. Shielding his face with one arm, Bassett sprang to the door and tried to push it back, but he jammed it in his haste and could not move it. He saw his trousers afire and stopped to beat out the flame; his trousers caught again—his coat—his hat—his hair—

Then he understood, and with a shrill scream of terror turned again to the door, clawing at it, scratching at it, tearing at it like a wild beast. Another moment, and the flames were swirling about him—another moment and he could feel his flesh crisping under their white-hot touch; another moment—and the door rolled back and he fell forward out of the car, afire from head to foot.