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But Wash was not quick enough. Like a flash Jim's hand was withdrawn from inside the hickory shirt, and the giant looked squarely into the muzzle of Jim Lane's ever ready, murderous weapon. In the same even voice, without the slightest allusion to the unfinished movement of the other, Mr.
"You said the other day that you had never met Eric Lane, though he was a great friend of Jim's. He was at Margaret Poynter's the other day when I was there. Ring me up between tea and dinner on Thursday. . . ." There remained Colonel Grayle, who had jerked out, as she left the "Divorce" with George Oakleigh: "Clever play! Rather like to meet the author. Decent feller, I believe."
Hetty listened breathlessly, her blue eyes opening wide, and her cheeks growing red. She did not speak. Mrs. Little misinterpreted her silence. "If you didn't want the baby here, I'd take it," she said almost beseechingly, "if Sally'd let me: it would break Jim's heart if they should have to leave here."
He showed as something under six feet tall, long in the limb and moving handily, with eyes of an angry blue in a face tanned russet by wind and sun. In the saloon he laughed down Jim's instances of Tom Mowbray's treachery and cunning, lounging with an elbow on the bar, careless and confident under the skeptical eyes of the white-jacketed barman.
Boy Jim's dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. "I should be glad to come, sir." "No, no, Jim," cried the smith, abruptly. "I'm sorry to gainsay you, lad, but there are reasons why I had rather you stayed down here with your aunt." "Tut, Harrison, let the lad come!" cried my uncle. "No, no, Sir Charles. It's dangerous company for a lad of his mettle. There's plenty for him to do when I'm away."
Bless ye! two o' them teams together would stretch from here 'most up to the Widow Jim's place, no such timber-pines nowadays." "I suppose the sailors are very jolly together sometimes," said Kate, meditatively, with the least flicker of a smile at me.
At that instant three shots, fired in rapid succession, rang out. "Down on your faces!" called the older of the armed men with the motor party. "Not necessary," spoke Tom, dryly. "The shots were fired by Jim Ferrers's army." "And I missed the pesky critter, too!" spoke Jim's voice, resentfully, as he showed his head over the edge of the cliff, where three puffs of smoke slowly ascended.
There was something defiant in the dark eyes. The man, to his swift imagination, was unduly perturbed. He glanced down at his clothes, and his eyes fixed themselves greedily upon the fingers of the hand nearest to him. A flash of triumph shot into his eyes as he heard Doc Crombie's voice suddenly break the silence. "How'd it happen? Who did it?" he asked sharply. Jim's answer came promptly.
He exchanged smiling looks over her little dark head with her husband, when he dined at the Sturmers'; the good professor was far more observing than was usually supposed; he knew more of Jim's character, it is probable, than Jim did himself; he knew that Senta was quite safe with the young American, and he liked him. But Senta, who was quite unscrupulous, was slow to realize it.
I can't tell you what he meant, and he had no voice to waste on explanations; I only give poor dear Jim's valedictory sentences as they fell from his white and trembling lips. Very different was Ned Palmer, the most diminutive and wiry of hill shepherds, with a tongue which seemed never tired, and a good humoured smile for every one.