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Big Jim Darrol, Tom Tanner and I have entered for a number of events at the Gartnockan Games on Saturday. I am also on the lists as a competitor for the Northern Counties Golf Championship on Monday." My father looked up at me in a strange way. "However," I went on quickly, "much as I dislike the rush, the gush and the clatter of house parties, I shall be on hand." "Good!
Breaking in on the general quiet of the place, I could hear distinctly the regular thud of hard steel on soft, followed by the clear double-ring of a small hammer on a mellow-toned anvil. One man, at any rate, was hard at work, Jim Darrol, big, honest, serious giant that he was. Light of heart and buoyant in body, I turned down toward the smithy.
"Tell me what you mean?" he snarled. "If you do not know what I mean, brother mine, sit down and I will tell you." "No!" he answered. "Oh, well! I'll tell you anyway." I went up close to him. "What are you going to do about Peggy Darrol?" I demanded. The shot hit hard; but he was almost equal to it. He sat down on the chest again and toyed once more with the point of the rapier.
"Little Peggy Darrol is not that sort of girl and well you know it. I have your own word for it, in writing." His face underwent a change in expression; his cheeks paled slightly. I drew his letter from my pocket. "Damn her for a little fool," he growled. He held out his hand for it. "Oh, no! Harry, I am keeping this meantime." And I replaced it.
Then, without looking up, he answered: "Peggy Darrol, eh, George! Peggy Darrol, did you say? Who the devil is she? Oh, ah, eh, oh, yes! the blacksmith's sister, um, nice little wench, Peggy: attractive, fresh, clinging, strawberries and cream and all that sort of thing. Bit of a dreamer, though!" "Who set her dreaming?" I asked, pushing my anger back. "Hanged if I know; born in her I suppose.
From my inside pocket, I took the letter which Harry had written to little, forlorn Peggy Darrol. I went to my writing desk and addressed an envelope to Lady Rosemary Granton. I inserted Harry's letter and sealed the envelope. As to the bearer of my message, that was easy. I pushed the button at my bedside and, in a second, sweet little Maisie Brant came to the door.
Through his narrow-slitted eyes, he was examining me from top to toe in apparent disgust: tall, thin, perfectly groomed, handsome, cynical, devil-may-care. I tried to speak calmly, but my anger was greater than I could properly control. Poor little Peggy Darrol was uppermost in my thoughts. "'Gad, George, you look like a tramp. Why don't you spruce up a bit?
I looked in through the grimy, broken window and admired the brawny giant he looked there in the glare of the furnace, with his broad back to me, his huge arms bared to the shoulders. Little wonder, thought I, Jim Darrol can whirl the hammer and put the shot farther than any man in the Northern Counties. How the muscles bulged, and wriggled, and crawled under his dark, hairy skin!
I had seen these danger signals in Jim before, but never with any ill intent toward me. I was so astounded I could scarcely think aright. What could he mean? What was the matter? "Jim, Jim," I soothed, "don't talk that way to old friends." "You're no friend of mine," he shouted. "Will you get out of here?" In some respects, I was like Jim Darrol: I did not like to be ordered about. "No!
I reasoned whether, after all, I had done right in interfering between my brother Harry and his fiancee; but, when I thought of poor little Peggy Darrol and the righteous indignation and anger of her brother Jim, I felt, that if I had to go through all of it again, I would do as I had done already. My telephone bell rang. I answered. It was the hotel exchange operator. "Hello! is that room 280?"
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