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Den de man 'gan ter beg fer mercy, an' tole his name. It was one of Cap'n Lane's own sogers. At dis moment Missy Roberta rush outen her room, cryin', 'Help! murder! Den we heared heaby steps rushing up de starway, an' tree ob Cap'n Lane's sogers dash for'ard.
Well, let's go in the writing room, where we can talk," said the other, and he took hold of Lane's arm. When they were seated in a secluded corner he lighted a cigar, and faced Lane with shrewd, kindly eyes. "Son, I like you and Blair as well as I hate these slackers Swann and Mackay, and their crowd.
Mr. Lane's books are far from being well written; the Spirits and Water, especially, is extremely poor stuff. The Month at Malvern is disfigured by similar faults of style; but Mr.
Bright, flashing, vivid faces and bare shoulders, arms and breasts appeared above the short bodices of the girls. Few of them were gowned in white. The colors seemed too garish for anything but musical comedy. But the freshness, the vividness of these girls seemed exhilarating. The murmur, the merriment touched a forgotten chord in Lane's heart.
As they went sailing past her, it became Captain Lane's turn to bend forward with a lantern, and ascertain who his new acquaintance was. There, painted in blood-red letters on the black stern, was the name
Before he had done, his secretary returned, and he was still dictating when a sound in the hall froze his voice and set his heart thumping. "I hear Mr. Lane's not well. Do you think he could see me for a moment?" "I'll enquire, my lady." As Barbara came into the room, Eric saw that her face was grey with suffering and that she seemed hardly able to keep her heavy lids open.
"We can move the whole company over the Canadian border, and before Bilby can do anything over there we'll have finished 'The Long Lane's Turning. That's the only way I see out of the mess." "But think of the expense!" "Sure! I'm thinking of that all the time," grumbled Hooley. "And don't you forget that the boss never allows me to lose sight of it.
Apparently not to-day." "'Tisn't my picnic." "Oh! Is it Miss Lane's?" "One would say it was, from the way she slaves for it," remarked Gerald. "Why don't you help too?" asked De Forest, breaking off blades of grass and flinging them out singly upon the air. "For Miss Masters' excellent reason: it is not my picnic." "You contribute your valuable aid solely to your own undertakings then?"
They had a barrel of excellent salt beef from the stores of the ship; and Pitts made a splendid hash, which suited all hands better than almost anything else. While they were at dinner the steward brought in Lane's report of the measurements of the orang Louis had shot.
He hobbled in, erect and martial of bearing despite the crutch, and his dark citizen's suit emphasized the whiteness of his face. Being home had softened Blair a little. Yet the pride and tragic bitterness were there. But when Blair espied Lane a warmth burned out of the havoc in his face. Lane's conscience gave him a twinge.