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Updated: June 22, 2025
I knew what was going on inside of ye, because it was just that I felt myself. I hoped I prayed ye might come to it." The sight of this taciturn Scotchman, moved in this way, had an extraordinary effect on Hodder himself, and his own emotion was so inexpressibly stirred that he kept silence a moment to control it. This proof of the truth of his theory in regard to McCrae he found overwhelming.
His affection for the man, his admiration for McCrae's faithful, untiring, and unrecognized services had deepened. He had a theory that McCrae really liked him would even sympathize with his solution; yet he procrastinated. He was afraid to put his theory to the test.
Farwell listened, biting his lips and frowning. And his first words were an inquiry as to Sheila. "Miss McCrae rode through that storm last night!" he exclaimed. "Good Lord! Is she badly hurt?" "Only shaken up, I think." "Thank God for that," said Farwell, with evident sincerity. He hesitated for a moment. "See here, Dunne, do you mind if I ask you an impertinent question?" "Fire away."
"He's got his chance," said Dade. "It's up to him." Young McCrae launched a string of epithets at him, the cream of the vocabularies of certain mule skinners of his acquaintance. Meanwhile his finger itched on the trigger. "You're a durn poor persuader," said McHale. "The kid will stick. Far's I'm concerned, if you want me, come and get me. Don't show your hide no more.
I understand perfectly, McCrae, that the promulgation alone of the liberal orthodoxy of which I have spoken will bring me into conflict with the majority of the vestry and the congregation, and that the bishop will be appealed to. They will say, in effect, that I have cheated them, that they hired one man and that another has turned up, whom they never would have hired.
And I think you'll find him somewhere in the hills. That's all I can tell you now." "Him and this young McCrae is tillikums, they tell me," the sheriff suggested. "You think maybe they've met up?" "They may. There's a chance of it." The sheriff considered. "This McCrae is a leetle mite headstrong, I'm told. Sorter apt to act rash." "I'm afraid so." The sheriff shook his head regretfully.
If their relationship had from the beginning been unusual and unsatisfactory, adjectives would seem to defy what it had become during the summer. What did McCrae think of him? For Hodder had, it will be recalled, bidden his assistant good-by and then had remained.
This great work was brought to a sudden end by the illness of Lucy McCrae. At this time the Van de Grift family were living in a house on Illinois Street. This house had a cellar door at the back. To quote the words of her schoolmate, Ella Hale: "At this cellar door the children used to gather to hear fairy and ghost stories.
And Hodder, as he hesitated over his opening, contemplated in no little perplexity and travail the gaunt and non-committal face before him: "McCrae," he began at length, "you must have thought my conduct this summer most peculiar.
He was tired, and it was largely because he dreaded the reflection inevitable in a period of rest, that he refused. . . . And throughout these months, the feeling recurred, with increased strength, that McCrae was still watching him, the notion persisted that his assistant held to a theory of his own, if he could but be induced to reveal it. Hodder refrained from making the appeal.
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