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There was racial prejudice, and service pride, as well as the usual decent man's desire to win to make a real mill of what might have been nothing out of ordinary; and there were the quite considerable odds against him that after the first repulse usually make men like Crothers do their utmost. Even the Arabs lost their stoicism while round two was under way.
Crothers could smile and speak courteously; his hard eyes could soften and attract, and there was no doubt as to his business capacity and positive genius in bargaining. With a more or less clear idea as to the outcome of his desires, Crothers was perfectly explicit as to his desires. He wanted to get Sandy Morley away, permanently away, from Lost Hollow.
He stooped and looked deliberately to make sure that Crothers could not break away, then came closer and spat on him, saving half his spittle with impartial forethought for the struggling Byng, who looked up in time to see what was in store for him. Being spat on is even less exhilarating than it sounds or looks, and Byng waxed speechless after passing through a many-worded stage of blasphemy.
He knew that Treadwell had not returned the evening before, but Tansey Moore, who was now manager of Crothers' new factory, had told him that Treadwell had gone to look up a piece of land back of Sudley's Gap, and the storm had naturally detained him. The sudden growth of intimacy between Crothers and Lans surprised and amused Sandy.
The night's revel had been rather wilder than usual, and Crothers was not as young as he once was. The bell of his factory was ringing, however, and he unsteadily made his way thither. It was Cynthia who was treading lightly up The Way, but not the Cynthia who a few months before had gone so blindly to do the bidding of that inner voice of conscience.
The call awakened no response, but fear laid its guarding hand upon the girl as it had on that terrible night when Smith Crothers asked of her what Treadwell was now seeking in a different way, but in the same language. "No!" Cynthia shuddered, shrinking from him. "No!" The denial had awakened evil in Crothers; it aroused the best in Treadwell.
Before Crothers could answer him, a snarl, then a yap, then a quick, determined growl gave warning of the terrier's interest in something else than fleas. He had been scratching himself peacefully a moment earlier; now, like a bower anchor taking charge, he ripped the chain through Byng's hand and was off chin, back and tail in one straight, striving line in full chase of a pariah.
So silently had he come, so suddenly had he materialized, that Cynthia was taken off her guard. Her hand went to her side but the pistol was not there! In her safer, saner life she often forgot the dangerous thing. A shudder ran through her body and she drew nearer Treadwell. The soft, gray day grew dark, and Crothers, like something evil, seemed to pervade everything.
Treadwell did not surprise or shock her. He seemed a big, splendid happening from the world beyond the mountains. He was strong and pleasant and made one laugh, but he would go presently and they would talk about him as they talked about Sheridan's raid and Smith Crothers' fire he was not part of Lost Mountain!
One does not laugh, between certain parallels, unless the ultimate degree of insult is intended. And Curley Crothers and Joe Byng did laugh. They held their ribs and laughed until their muscles ached and their strong men's strength oozed out of them. They were laughing when they grabbed the dog at last and pulled him off.
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