Tom Grogan [41]
devising plans to keep Tom out of the board-room.
Quigg's report was not reassuring. She would be paid her insurance money, he said, and would certainly be at the meeting that night.
The three adjourned to the room over the bar. McGaw began pacing the floor, his long arms hooked behind his back. He had passed a sleepless night, and every hour now added to his anxiety. His face was a dull gray yellow, and his eyes were sunken. Now and then he would tug at his collar nervously. As he walked he clutched his fingers, burying the nails in the palms, the red hair on his wrists bristling like spiders' legs. Dempsey sat at the table watching him calmly out of the corner of his eye.
After a pause Quigg leaned over, his lips close to Dempsey's ear. Then he drew a plan on the back of an old wine-list. It marked the position of the door in Tom's stable, and that of a path which ran across lots and was concealed from her house by a low fence. Dempsey studied it a moment, nodding at Quigg's whispered explanations, and passed it to McGaw, repeating Quigg's words. McGaw stopped and bent his head. A dull gleam flashed out of his smouldering eyes. The lines of his face hardened and his jaw tightened. For some minutes he stood irresolute, gazing vacantly over the budding trees through the window. Then he turned sharply, swallowed a brimming glass of raw whiskey, and left the room.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away, Dempsey looked at Quigg meaningly and gave a low laugh.
XIV
BLOSSOM-WEEK
It was "blossom-week," and every garden and hedge flaunted its bloom in the soft air. All about was the perfume of flowers, the odor of fresh grass, and that peculiar earthy smell of new-made garden beds but lately sprinkled. Behind the hill overlooking the harbor the sun was just sinking into the sea. Some sentinel cedars guarding its crest stood out in clear relief against the golden light. About their tops, in wide circles, swooped a flock of crows.
Gran'pop and Tom sat on the front porch, their chairs touching, his hand on hers. She had been telling him of Quigg's visit that morning. She had changed her dress for a new one. The dress was of brown cloth, and had been made in the village--tight where it should be loose, and loose where it should be tight. She had put it on, she told Pop, to make a creditable appearance before the board that night.
Jennie was flitting in and out between the sitting-room and the garden, her hands full of blossoms, filling the china jars on the mantel: none of them contained Quigg's contribution. Patsy was flat on his back on the small patch of green surrounding the porch, playing circus-elephant with Stumpy, who stood over him with leveled head.
Up the hill, but a few rods away, Cully was grazing the Big Gray--the old horse munching tufts of fresh, sweet grass sprinkled with dandelions. Cully walked beside him. Now and then he lifted one of his legs, examining the hoof critically for possible tender places.
There was nothing the matter with the Gray; the old horse was still sound: but it satisfied Cully to be assured, and it satisfied, too, a certain yearning tenderness in his heart toward his old chum. Once in a while he would pat the Gray's neck, smoothing his ragged, half worn mane, addressing him all the while in words of endearment expressed in a slang positively profane and utterly without meaning except to these two.
Suddenly Jennie's cheek flushed as she came out on the porch. Carl was coming up the path. The young Swede was bareheaded, the short blond curls glistening in the light; his throat was bare too, so that one could see the big muscles in his neck. Jennie always liked him with his throat bare; it reminded her of a hero she had once seen in a play, who stormed a fort and rescued all the starving women.
"Da brown horse seek; batta come to stabble an' see him," Carl said, going direct to the porch, where he stood in front of Tom, resting one hand on his hip, his eyes never wandering from her face. He knew where Jennie was,
Quigg's report was not reassuring. She would be paid her insurance money, he said, and would certainly be at the meeting that night.
The three adjourned to the room over the bar. McGaw began pacing the floor, his long arms hooked behind his back. He had passed a sleepless night, and every hour now added to his anxiety. His face was a dull gray yellow, and his eyes were sunken. Now and then he would tug at his collar nervously. As he walked he clutched his fingers, burying the nails in the palms, the red hair on his wrists bristling like spiders' legs. Dempsey sat at the table watching him calmly out of the corner of his eye.
After a pause Quigg leaned over, his lips close to Dempsey's ear. Then he drew a plan on the back of an old wine-list. It marked the position of the door in Tom's stable, and that of a path which ran across lots and was concealed from her house by a low fence. Dempsey studied it a moment, nodding at Quigg's whispered explanations, and passed it to McGaw, repeating Quigg's words. McGaw stopped and bent his head. A dull gleam flashed out of his smouldering eyes. The lines of his face hardened and his jaw tightened. For some minutes he stood irresolute, gazing vacantly over the budding trees through the window. Then he turned sharply, swallowed a brimming glass of raw whiskey, and left the room.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away, Dempsey looked at Quigg meaningly and gave a low laugh.
XIV
BLOSSOM-WEEK
It was "blossom-week," and every garden and hedge flaunted its bloom in the soft air. All about was the perfume of flowers, the odor of fresh grass, and that peculiar earthy smell of new-made garden beds but lately sprinkled. Behind the hill overlooking the harbor the sun was just sinking into the sea. Some sentinel cedars guarding its crest stood out in clear relief against the golden light. About their tops, in wide circles, swooped a flock of crows.
Gran'pop and Tom sat on the front porch, their chairs touching, his hand on hers. She had been telling him of Quigg's visit that morning. She had changed her dress for a new one. The dress was of brown cloth, and had been made in the village--tight where it should be loose, and loose where it should be tight. She had put it on, she told Pop, to make a creditable appearance before the board that night.
Jennie was flitting in and out between the sitting-room and the garden, her hands full of blossoms, filling the china jars on the mantel: none of them contained Quigg's contribution. Patsy was flat on his back on the small patch of green surrounding the porch, playing circus-elephant with Stumpy, who stood over him with leveled head.
Up the hill, but a few rods away, Cully was grazing the Big Gray--the old horse munching tufts of fresh, sweet grass sprinkled with dandelions. Cully walked beside him. Now and then he lifted one of his legs, examining the hoof critically for possible tender places.
There was nothing the matter with the Gray; the old horse was still sound: but it satisfied Cully to be assured, and it satisfied, too, a certain yearning tenderness in his heart toward his old chum. Once in a while he would pat the Gray's neck, smoothing his ragged, half worn mane, addressing him all the while in words of endearment expressed in a slang positively profane and utterly without meaning except to these two.
Suddenly Jennie's cheek flushed as she came out on the porch. Carl was coming up the path. The young Swede was bareheaded, the short blond curls glistening in the light; his throat was bare too, so that one could see the big muscles in his neck. Jennie always liked him with his throat bare; it reminded her of a hero she had once seen in a play, who stormed a fort and rescued all the starving women.
"Da brown horse seek; batta come to stabble an' see him," Carl said, going direct to the porch, where he stood in front of Tom, resting one hand on his hip, his eyes never wandering from her face. He knew where Jennie was,