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Updated: June 12, 2025
And when he thrust back the black cowl that hid his face and began to speak, Stephen O'Mara recognized that terribly pale, terribly drawn face. Garry Devereau rocked a little in the saddle and waved a gracefully unsteady hand. "Blessings, my children!" he called to the two in the shadow, and his tongue was not thick, but only wavering. "My felicitations!
But Blue Jeans, who had landed lightly on the gravel, saw what Devereau had missed. He saw that Tweed-Suit was afraid that she was numbed with fear. His single back-hand thrust sent Devereau spinning under a truck. "Your train?" "Yes." "Give me your bag." She obeyed him. They had told her that the train did not wait very long. His hand found her arm, a different touch than Devereau's.
For if he had believed that force alone would win for him; if he had had faith that mere numbers could save his construction, he would not have left Garry Devereau with his scores of laborers, busy five miles to the south. Steve was not thinking of his construction now; it had become a dim and remote consideration. It had lost its importance in his scheme of things.
Before day broke there came an hour when Garry Devereau lifted himself upon one elbow and opened his eyes to stare half wildly, but very sanely, about the room. His gaze flitted wonderingly from wall to wall before it rested, fearfully fixed, upon Steve's brown face. Instantly he looked away, flinchingly, and met Fat Joe's voluminous grin and looked back again, cunningly cautious.
Acting upon Dexter's suggestion the man took Steve across the very next day and presented him to the children who were guests in the big stucco and timber house: Little, shy, transparent-skinned Mary Graves and Garret Devereau and Archibald Wickersham the Right Honorable Archie. But from the very first, Steve's lack of enthusiasm for their company impressed itself upon Caleb.
"That isn't the reason he doesn't want to play with them. They have been laughing at him, Cal; they have all been making fun of him, openly mocking his speech and and manners! All of them, that is, save Garry Devereau." Caleb's face hardened. "Did he tell you that?" he demanded, surprised. "Oh, no," Sarah exclaimed. "And you musn't mention it to him.
"He can't entertain me," said Perry. "Not a little bit." And suddenly with that Devereau was suave no longer. He leaped up and thumped upon a desk. He slitted his pale eyes. "Say, what d'yuh think you are?" he raved. "Talking to me like that!" Blair did not attempt to shout him down, and yet he made himself heard. "Not Pig-iron Dunham's man," he answered. "Nor yet yours.
So they had selected Blair, merely as a work-out for the title-holder. And the unforeseen had happened. Fanchette had proved to be through. Anyone anyone could have whipped him. But what about Gay? That was the natural question and they asked it. Blair had disposed of him, also in the first round. But to that Devereau made no answer, no verbal answer, at least.
And later, over a contract: "This mentions mighty little money," said Perry, "and that little bashful and meek." Perry's manner did not even approximate the respect which Devereau felt was his due. "You'll be well taken care of," he stated curtly. But Perry's answer, like one he had made the huge man, made Devereau pause and think. "No doubt at all," said he. "I'll be seeing to that myself."
Steve's face was gray, sweat was pouring from Fat Joe's scarlet face when the life-tide ebbed lowest and there came a sudden cessation in that stream of babbled madness, Garry Devereau lay so quiet that an oath jerked huskily from Fat Joe's lips; but when he had listened at the motionless chest he lifted his head and smiled, seraphically.
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