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"What I'm figurin' on doing is a regular love story. I thought maybe I'd have a nice young chap who who's building a railroad or something, fall in love with a real nice girl who's the daughter of a fat man who's a crook. I mean the fat man's the crook, not the daughter. And and " "And then what?" asked Garry Devereau.
He realized that she cared for Garrett Devereau only as he cared himself with fine and lasting appreciation for the finenesses of him whom they had known together. Steve nodded his comprehension, and made no answer to her invitation to him, then. But they found conversation somehow less easy after that.
Then Devereau and Dunham were right. According to that he wasn't a champion. Nobody acknowledged him. But he'd teach 'em a better definition. A champion was someone who could go right on fighting when everybody was cheering for the other guy. A champion was somebody who could fool 'em that easy! that complete! You bet!
"I fight on the level," said Perry, "or I don't fight at all." "Then you don't fight at all," said Devereau. Blair held him a long time with an eye that was chill. His voice was quieter than before, if that were possible. "I have sat here and taken talk from you, you vermin, that I'd take from no man, because I could figure no other way. They know, downstairs, that you are up here with me.
Devereau whom he brought up here last night, and in fairly good time I should judge, too, from the pace at which they set out. Garry turned him into the hill-road, and he must have stuck to it blindly until he struck our fork." And, after a longer pause: "The horse is Miss Allison's own property," he added quietly. Joe pursed his lips.
He did not point out that Hughie was a set-up, a second-rater. No, indeed. He shrugged his shoulders shrugged them almost audibly. "I had nothing to do with it," he said. "Absolutely. Ask Blair about it. I've quit him." Pig-iron Dunham, who paid the bills, and Devereau who was cunning, did just what the latter had promised they would do.
It was the problem of Garrett Devereau which lay behind Stephen O'Mara's hours of gravity that perplexing problem which Miriam Burrell, level of eye and brave of tongue, had brought to him for help. And in the end, as is usually the way, events of themselves finally gave Steve the opportunity to say all that he knew could not be introduced by him.
But Devereau had known better than to linger near the baggage truck. So after he had looked beneath it and upon it and all around it and found nobody, Blue Jeans turned and watched the red tail-light of the train disappear. Who shall say where fancy first was bred? Not you or I nor even Blue Jeans. For he had not even seen her yet, not with seeing eyes. Here was yet no chapter of his Dream.
You can pick 'em yourself hereafter. But right now your orders is to let Hughie stay the distance. A week from Saturday. Is that clear? Have you got that sure?" Blair sat silent. It is strange how silence will fool a man like Devereau. He made one last try for peace. "And if you behave; if you're a good boy maybe we're going to forget we had this little misunderstanding.
You do not please me, as you are. Some day I hope to alter you so that you will be a curio, even to your own best friends. . . . Get out!" The chill eye had frightened Devereau. It heartened him to hear that he was safe. "We'll put you out on the street," he snarled. "You'll be standing on a corner, wondering what it's all about!" "Get out!" Devereau got. And Perry Blair had wanted to see.
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