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But before the intruding steward had departed the second officer was at Durkin's elbow, overlooking his labors, and no further word or hint came to the ears of the listener. But he had heard enough. The flame had been applied to the dry acreage of his too arid and idle existence. He had remained passive too long. It was change that brought chance.
Even Penny Durkin's violin was silent, which was a most unusual condition of affairs for that hour of the afternoon. Clint slammed his door behind him, tossed his cap in the general direction of the window-seat and flopped morosely into a chair at the table.
She knew men and the world too well to look for any sudden and sweeping reorganization of Durkin's disturbed and restless mind. But she nursed the secret hope that out of that spiritual ferment would come some ultimate clearness of vision. It was late when he called her up on deck again, ostensibly to catch a glimpse of Vesuvius breaking and bursting into flame, above Barra and Portici.
But, under any circumstances, well guarded as that poolroom fortress stood, its resistance could be only a matter of time, and of strictly limited time, once the reserves were on the scene. Durkin's first thought, accordingly, was of the roof, for, so far as he knew, all escape from the ground floor was even then cut off.
Durkin's first tangible feeling was a passion to lose and submerge himself in the muffling midnight silences, the silences of those outwardly quiet gardens at heart so old in sin and pain. He felt the necessity for some sudden and sweeping readjustment, and his cry for solitude was like that of the child wounded in spirit, or that of the wild animal sorely hurt in body.
"I mean that Durkin's got his quarter of a million in securities, all right, all right, but, by God, I've got you! And I mean that he's goin' to, that he's got to, make a choice between them and you. So we'll just wait and find out which he loves best, his beau or his dough!"
He was heartily glad when the study-hour came to an end and he could conscientiously close his books. The termination of that hour was almost invariably announced by the dismal squawking of Penny Durkin's fiddle. Sometimes it was to be heard in the afternoon, but not always, for Penny was a very busy youth.
"Thank heaven," he answered gratefully, "it's not that!" "Not yet!" she whispered back, bitterly, as she heard the chink and rattle of metal in the darkness. But some day it might be. Then she heard another sound, which caused her to catch quickly at Durkin's arm.
"I haven't done anything to you." "You spoke disrespectfully of the school, Dreer. I told you you mustn't. I'm terribly fond of the dear old school and it hurts me to hear it maligned. And then there's Durkin's violin, Dreer. Perhaps you haven't heard about that." A gleam of comprehension flashed in the boy's face and he backed up against the fence.
Steve crumpled the note up and dropped it in the basket under the table. "I guess we don't want any more of Mr. Durkin's bargains." "Still, this 'Morris' chair turned out pretty well," said Tom, settling himself in it with a book. "And perhaps if we had that thing you'd keep your shoes looking better."
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