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For all the regularity of his rather handsome features, his was never an attractive face to her, even in first, susceptible girlhood; and in the moonlight it suddenly filled her with dread. Ray Brent was a dangerous type: imperious willed, slave to his most degenerate instincts, reckless, as free from moral restraint as the most savage creatures that roamed his native wilds.
"Can't you come over to my box for lunch? I've asked Lula Chandos and Warry Trowbridge." It was not without appropriateness that Trixton Brent called his house the "Box." It was square, with no pretensions to architecture whatever, with a porch running all the way around it.
"Alderman Crood lives by his tannery the far end of the town. Anybody'll show you the place, once you're past the big church." "I'm going that way," remarked Peppermore. "Come with me, Mr. Brent." He led Brent out into St. Lawrence Lane, a narrow thoroughfare at the back of the Moot Hall, and turning a corner, emerged on the market-place, over which the night shadows had now fallen.
And if I catch you in here again, I'll wring your neck like a roostah's. Git!" "Who told you this?" asked Captain Brent. "Wright himself, afterward," replied Mr. Carvel, laughing. "But listen, Lige. The old man lives at the Planters' House, you know. What does Mr. Hopper do but go 'round there that very night and give a nigger two bits to put him at the old man's table.
But when the hour for starting arrived, Brent had not risen, and the professor, who allowed nothing to interfere with his plans if he could help it, set out alone. A little before sunset he returned, full of enthusiasm over the scenery, and highly pleased with the people in the farm-houses where he had stopped. "They are a good, honest, kreuzbraves Volk," he said.
He desired to convert the Cotton into a gunboat, and was assisted to the extent of his means by Major Brent, who furnished two twenty-fours and a field piece for armament. An attempt was made to protect the boilers and machinery with cotton bales and railway iron, of which we had a small quantity, and a volunteer crew was put on board, Fuller in command.
Susan was thinking of Brent's last words: She had said, "I'll try to deserve all the pains you've taken, Mr. Brent." "Yes, I have done a lot for you," he had replied. "I've put you beyond the reach of any of the calamities of life beyond the need of any of its consolations. Don't forget that if the steamer goes down with all on board."
Well, now, young Pryder's father is a policeman sergeant in the Borough Constabulary, and naturally he's opportunities of knowing. And when he knows he talks in the home circle, Mr. Brent." "Been talking?" asked Brent. "Guardedly, sir, guardedly!" replied Peppermore.
Yet as he stood there, with the sweat and grime of his labor drying on his forehead, his brooding eyes held a patriarchal dignity of uncomplaining courage. "All these hyar men air my neighbors, Mr. Brent," he said with a manner of instinctive courtesy. "They hain't a-workin' fer wages but jest ter kinderly convenience me I reckon we're both of us right smart beholden to 'em."
Brent saw that he was not going to get any information under that roof, and after a further brief exchange of trite observations he rose to take his leave. Alderman Crood wrung his hand. "Sorry I am, sir, that your first visit to my establishment should be under such painful circumstances," he said unctuously.
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