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Updated: June 7, 2025
He knew that if Brayley beat him down now it would be because he was the better man. And he had told Argyl that he was going to lick Brayley. She had laughed. None the less, it was a promise to her, his first promise, and he was going to keep it.
An anger the like of which he had never known in the placid days of his easy life was upon him, an anger which made him forget all things under the arch of heaven excepting the one man with bloody fists glaring into his eyes, an anger blind and hot and primitive. Again he knew that he was on his feet; again he was rushing at the man who stood waiting for him. "Stan' back!" roared Brayley.
Brayley has no objections and can spare me a blanket and some bread and coffee I'll roost here and watch the ditch grow in the morning." Tommy Garton was still perched upon his high stool when Conniston came to the office. "Just through, though," he said, as he climbed down and with the aid of his crutches piloted his new legs toward the door, grasping Conniston's hand warmly.
We were three guns that day, Sir Henry Curtis, Old Quatermain, and myself; but Sir Henry was obliged to leave in the middle of the afternoon in order to meet his agent, and inspect an outlying farm where a new shed was wanted. However, he was coming back to dinner, and going to bring Captain Good with him, for Brayley Hall was not more than two miles from the Grange.
He guessed from the line of her cheek, from the slightly upturned curve at the corner of her mouth, that she was half inclined to be serious, and almost ready to smile at him. "You are inclined to look upon Brayley as an enemy?" was all that she said, still watching him closely. "No!" he cried, warmly. "I sneered at him the other day, I know.
His voice was harsh, his question a command for an answer. "Who told you?" "I knew there was trouble. I asked about it. Brayley told me." He made no answer. There was nothing for him to say. She had Brayley's account of the fight, she believed it, and Conniston would not let her know that he cared enough to give his own version. "I have not meant to be unkind, Mr.
"What are you waitin' an' loafin' here for?" "I want to talk with you a minute." Conniston's voice was very quiet, almost devoid of expression. "Well, talk. An' talk fast! I ain't got all day." Brayley was standing close to him now, his eyes boring into Conniston's, his manner impatient, irritated.
And he saw further, wondering vaguely what it meant, that as the big foreman came in the eyes of all the others went first to him and then to Conniston. Brayley stopped a moment at the door, washing his face and hands swiftly, carelessly, satisfied in rubbing a good part of the evidence of the day's toil upon the towel hanging upon a nail close at hand.
It means that no little man like Oliver Swinnerton, and no smooth tool belonging to Oliver Swinnerton, is going to keep us from living up to our contract with the P. C. & W. Not if they resort to all of the dirty work their maggot-infested brains can concoct!" When Brayley came in he found two men smoking cigarettes and sitting in watchful silence.
He was over the man whom he had set out to whip, and as Brayley struggled to his feet it was only to receive Conniston's fist full in the face again, only to be hurled back to the ground with cut, bleeding lips. Again bellowing curses which ran into one another like one long, vicious word, Brayley got to his feet.
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