Part 28 (2/2)

”Maggie. That's all I want. You're getting off easy. Luck's with you.

I've stood a lot from you, the same as the town has. It will stand a lot more, and I will. Get Maggie back. Get her back and give her to me and leave her alone, and I'll eat out of your hand and starve when you don't feed me, the same as the rest”--he came two wavering steps nearer, and dropped his voice to a dry quaver meant to be confidential, a grotesque and sinister parody of a confidence--”the rest, that don't know what I know.”

”What do you mean?”

”I won't tell. Don't be afraid. A gentleman don't tell, and there's n.o.body that can but me. Young Neil don't know. The luck's with you, sir, just the same as it always was.”

”I've had enough of this. Get home, Brady,” cried the Colonel, in a voice that was suddenly wavering and high, like an old man's, but his guest only smiled and nodded wisely, beginning to sway as he stood, but still gripping the clumsy revolver tight.

”Just the same as it was when old Neil Donovan died.”

”Get home,” shrilled the Colonel again, but his guest pursued the tenor of his thoughts untroubled, still with the look of an amiably disposed fellow-conspirator on his weak face, a maddening look, even if his words conveyed no sting of their own.

”Neil Donovan,” he crooned, ”my father's own half-brother, and a good uncle to me, and a gentleman, too. He sold rum over a counter, but he was a gentleman, for he didn't talk too much. A gentleman don't tell.”

But the catalogue of his uncle's perfections, whether in place here or not, was to proceed no further. The audience pressed closer, as eager to look on at a fight as it was to keep out of one. There was a new and surprising development in this one. The two men had closed with each other, and it was not the half-crazed boy who had made the attack, but the Colonel himself.

It was a sudden and awkward attack, and there was something stranger about it still. The Colonel was angry. He had tried to knock the weapon out of the boy's hand, failed, and tried instinctively, still, to get possession of it, but he was not making an adequate and necessary attempt to disarm him, he was no longer adequate or calm. He was angry, suddenly angry with the poor specimen of humanity that was making its futile attempt at protest and rebellion, as if it were an equal and an enemy. His face was distorted and his eyes were dull and unseeing. His breath came in panting gasps, and he made inarticulate little sounds in his throat. He struck furious and badly directed blows.

It was a curious thing to see, in the heart of the great man's admiring circle, at the climax of his most successful party of the year. It did not last long. The two struggling figures broke away from each other, and the boy staggered backward and stood with the revolver still in his hand. He was a little sobered by the struggle, and a little weakened by it, pale and dangerous, with a fanatic light in his eyes. Some one who had an eye for danger signals, if the Colonel had not, had made his un.o.btrusive way forward, and joined him now. He was not the most formidable looking of allies, but he stood beside them as if he had a right to be there, and the Colonel turned to him as if he recognized it.

”Hugh, you heard what he said?” he appealed; ”you heard?”

”Judge, you keep out of this,” Brady called, ”keep out, sir.”

Judge Saxon, keeping a casual hand on his most prominent client's arm, stood regarding Mr. Brady with mild and friendly blue eyes. He had quite his usual air of being detached from his surroundings, but benevolently interested in them.

”Charlie,” he said, as if he were recognizing Mr. Brady for the first time at this critical moment, and deriving pleasure from it. ”Why, Charlie,” his voice became gently reproachful, but remained friendly, too. ”Everard, this boy don't mean a word he says,” he went on, with conviction, ”he's excited and you're excited, too. This is a pretty poor time for you to get excited, Everard.”

”You're right, Hugh,” muttered the Judge's most prominent client thickly; ”you're right. Get him away. Get him home.”

”He's a good boy,” p.r.o.nounced the Judge.

It was not the obvious description of Mr. Brady just at that moment.

There was only friendly amus.e.m.e.nt in the Judge's drawling voice and shrewd eyes, but back of it, unmistakably there, was something that made every careless word worth listening to. Mr. Brady was resisting it. His face worked pitifully.

”Judge, I told you to keep out. I don't want to hurt you.”

”Thanks, Charlie.”

”Every word I say is G.o.d's truth, Judge.”

The Judge did not contradict this sweeping statement. He was studying Mr. Brady's weapon with some interest. ”Your uncle's,” he commented, pleased. ”Why, I didn't know you still owned that thing, Charlie.”

”I want Maggie. I want----”

”I'll tell you what you want,” offered the Judge, amicably, ”you want to hand that thing to me, and go home.”

Mr. Brady received this suggestion in silence, a silence which left his audience uncertain how deeply he resented it. Indeed, they were painfully uncertain, and showed it. Bits of advice reached the Judge's ears, contradictory, though much of it sound, but he took no notice of it. He only smiled his patient and wistful smile and waited, like a man who knew what would happen next.

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