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The fierceness of his gaze was due to the knowledge that Lapelle was now inside Trentman's notorious shanty and perhaps gambling. This evening, as on two or three earlier occasions, he had been urged by Barry to come down to the shanty and try his luck at poker. He had steadfastly declined these invitations.
She's got the whim that you don't intend to live there." "I was rather undecided about it myself, at least for the present. I am quite comfortable here at Mr. Johnson's." "It isn't bad here, and he certainly sets a good table. Say, I guess I owe you a sort of apology, Kenny. I hope you will overlook the way I spoke last night when you said you couldn't go to Jack Trentman's.
Do you suppose anybody'll take the trouble to feed 'em?" Toby Moxler, Jack Trentman's dealer, accosted Kenneth Gwynne at the conclusion of the first drill. "Jack found this here letter down at the shanty this morning, Mr. Gwynne. It's addressed to you, so he asked me to hand it to you when I saw you." Kenneth knew at once who the letter was from. He stuck it into his coat pocket, unopened.
Lapelle, who had gone into temporary retirement at Jack Trentman's shanty, having arrived at that unsavoury retreat by a roundabout, circuitous route which allowed him to spend some time on the bank of a sequestered brook. Meanwhile Rachel Carter approached her own home, afoot and weary.
The usual crowd of onlookers thronged the bank, attention being temporarily diverted from an important game of "horseshoes" that was taking place in the sugar grove below Trentman's shanty. Pitching horseshoes was the daily fair-weather pastime of the male population of the town.
Trentman's place was known far and wide as a haven into which "cleaned out" river gamblers sailed in the hope of recovering at least enough of their fortunes to enable them to return to more productive fields down the reaches of the big river. These whilom, undaunted rascals, like birds of passage, stayed but a short time in the new town of Lafayette.
"Well, I guess I know now why there wasn't nobody to home up yander. That was Violy an' her ma." Kenneth started. "You you don't mean it!" "Yep. An' if you was to ask me what they air doin' down here by the river I'd tell you. Mrs. Gwyn jest simply took Violy down there to Trentman's shanty an' SHOWED her Barry Lapelle playin' cards." "Impossible! I would have seen them."
"May I inquire why you have been following me, Mr. Stain?" "Well, I jest didn't know of anybody else I could come to about a certain matter. It has to do with that feller, Lapelle, up yander in Trentman's place. Fust, I went up to Mrs. Gwyn's house, but it was all dark, an' nobody to home 'cept that dog o' her'n. He knowed me er else he'd have jumped me.
His wanderings had carried him through dark, winding cow-paths and lanes to within a stone's throw of Jack Trentman's shanty, standing alone like the pariah it was, on the steep bank of the river near the ferry. Back in a clump of sugar trees it seemed to hide, as if shrinking from the accusing eye of every good and honest man.
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