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The two were hauling in supplies for Conroy's Camp, on Little Ottanoonsis Lake. Silently, but for the clank and creak of the harness, and the soft "thut, thut" of the trodden snow, the little procession toiled on through the soundless desolation. Between the trees naked birches and scattered, black-green firs filtered the lonely, yellowish-violet light of the fading winter afternoon.
"Yes," lied Rowdy, and thought a good deal in a very short time. Harry Conroy's sister! Well, she wasn't to blame for that, of course; nor for thinking her brother a white man. "I remember I did see him ride once," he observed. "He was a whirlwind, all right and he sure was handsome, too."
Just below Conroy's Camp the river wallowed round a narrow bend, tangled with slate ledges. It was a nasty place enough at low water, but in freshet a roaring terror to all the river-men. When the logs were running in any numbers, the bend had to be watched with vigilance lest a jam should form, and the waters be dammed back, and the lumber get "hung up" all over the swamps of the upper reaches.
A daring fellow in the lead came streaking slantwise across the front, as though aiming to pick up the comrade lurking in the dip of the prairie-like slope, and Conroy's carbine was the first to bark, followed almost instantly by Dean's.
If he's there yet, I bid for an invite to the 'swatfest. Or maybe" a horrible possibility forced itself upon Pink "maybe you'll kill the fattest maverick and fall on his neck " "The maverick's?" Rowdy's brows were rather pinched together, but his tone told nothing. "Naw; Harry Conroy's a fellow's liable to do most any fool thing when he's got schoolma'amitis." "That so?" Pink snorted.
He had visited his mother, too, in Hereford, and he talked something of her and of the home-life, which his body, cut out of all clean life for five years, innocently and deeply enjoyed. Nurse Blaber was a little interested in Conroy's mother, but, as a rule, she smoked her cigarette and read her paper-backed novels in her own compartment.
I now reach the time when I myself came for the first time in touch with Conroy's plans and had my first meeting with Gideon McNeice. I am an insignificant Irish peer, far from wealthy, with a taste for literature, and, I think, a moderate amount of benevolent feeling towards those of my fellow-men who do not annoy me in any way.
When they discovered that he was the private secretary of a famous millionaire their manner changed and they explained the policies of their various parties in such ways as seemed likely to draw large cheques from Conroy. Bob reported what they said, summarized the letters of the disappointed hostesses, and piled Conroy's table with books, pamphlets, and newspaper cuttings.
In Bob's opinion there were several things very well worth doing. He suggested one of them at once. "Let's get out the Finola," he said, "and go for a cruise. We've never done the South Sea Islands." The Finola was the largest of Conroy's yachts, a handsome vessel of something over a thousand tons. "Cruising in the Finola," said Conroy, "is no earthly good to me.
Several admirals, a judge or two, and three or four well-known generals were on board at different times. Once he had two bishops, an Anglican who was known as a profound theologian, and a Roman Catholic prelate from the west of Ireland. The names of women rarely appeared on the list, but the Countess of Moyne was advertised as having accepted Conroy's hospitality twice.
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