He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. "Sir Rowland," he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, "if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. He wasn't sure, but he thought he saw a faint shudder stir her shoulders. Miraculously, her schoolmates were so upswept in their own summer planning that they had no time to interrogate her. "I might return the question. I cannot tell you much about it, but my bad times are over for the present. He loaded the launch with a thousand pounds—all she could carry—and started home immediately after sundown; but even then he lost from a hundred to a hundred and fifty pounds before he had the stuff cached in McClintock's bamboo-covered sawdust pit. His eyes never left her face. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support. Drummond patted him on the shoulder. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor. “I have made over seven hundred pounds in the last week,” he said. The thought made her exquisitely happy. He felt no pain from this cowardly kick.
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