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Updated: June 22, 2025
The game chickens, the beloved of Broussard's heart, he presented to another officer, whose wife objected seriously to cock-fighting. The chaplain, seeing the grand piano was about to be thrown away on anybody who could take it, managed to secure it for the men's reading-room. The thing which perplexed Broussard most was, what to do with Gamechick.
Kettle knew the meaning both of the quarter and the wink. Across the hall Kettle was arranging the dinner table, it being Mrs. McGillicuddy's duty to put the After-Clap to bed. The dining-room door was ajar, and Kettle kept an eye open to Broussard's advantage. Presently, Mrs. Fortescue came down-stairs, dressed for dinner in a gown of a jocund yellow, which Colonel Fortescue liked.
Anita knew that when it was Jack and Betty the skies were serene, and when it became John and Elizabeth there were clouds upon the horizon. At this point Kettle, who was serving dinner, felt that his duty as Broussard's ally was to speak. "Miss Betty," said he with solemn emphasis, "Mr. Broussard doan' keep them chickens in his cellar fur to fight; he keeps 'em to lay aigs fur his breakfus'."
Broussard's anger had served me well, and it never occurred to me to doubt this story, told under the inspiration of liquor. It dovetailed in with all I previously knew. The facts were clear. Philip Henley was dead, killed while intoxicated, either accidentally, or for purposes of robbery. And he had been robbed when picked up by the police, nothing to identify him being found.
The gaze of the two women met, for Anita was a woman grown in matters of the heart. She imagined she saw pity in Mrs. Lawrence's expression. Instantly, she began to knit rapidly. She wished to talk unconcernedly, but the words would not come. Broussard's association with the pallid woman before her was a painful mystery to Anita.
This, Kettle carefully explained, was the baby's way of saying Broussard, but it brought a good many quarters from Broussard's pocket into Kettle's palm. The December days sped on, and Christmas was nearing. As the great, splendid fort was a shut-in place, the people in it made great preparations for Christmas, if only to forget that they were shut in.
Then, handing the ring back, Broussard studied Lawrence's haggard face. Lawrence, answering the unspoken words, said: "I was always thought like my mother, and the boy is the image of her." A sudden illumination flooded Broussard's mind with light. He recalled the child's face, frank and handsome a face that had always appealed to him so strongly, and so strangely.
So long it had been since the tones of human speech blessed my ears, I almost hoped the marshal's men might come, that I might hear his stern command, "Hang him to yonder window ledge." A rasping thirst roasted my throat until my tongue gritted and ground as a rusted clapper in a bell. I touched it with my hand. It was as dry as Broussard's. Broussard!
There was no sign of any boat along the beach of the cove, and the fishermen had disappeared, not a glimmer of white sail showing above the waters. Surely no better opportunity than this could be given. I stole back, silent and unobserved, listened an instant to Broussard's steady breathing, then unlocked the Captain's door, and entered his cabin.
And Broussard was a captivating, fellow this the Colonel admitted to himself, with an inward groan, watching Broussard's graceful figure, his dashing manner, all these externals that dazzle women. The Colonel also saw the color that flooded Anita's face when she took Broussard's arm to lead her in to dinner.
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