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Updated: May 1, 2025
His pale blue eyes were twinkling. McGraw's heavy jowl fell slack. "Well, McGraw thought you wouldn't forget me this soon. What's the latest from Mr. Griffith?" "Jacksonville Holy saints! you've sure been lushin' some, Mr. Blake." "Looks like it; but as it happens I haven't. Tried to turn loose, but got switched. Instead of a spree, I've been on a bum tour of the Sunny South."
Bob was the kind of fellow who likes to make a heap of his winnings, when he has any, and stake it all on the turning of a card; if this metaphor may be employed to designate Bob McGraw's nature without creating the impression that he had, inherited a penchant for the gaming table. It had been born in him to take a chance. And the gold fever, inherited from his father, still burned in his blood.
When presently Bob went into the house to write the desired order for Harley P., Donna and the gambler were left alone for a few minutes. Instantly Mr. Hennage became serious. "Looky here. Miss Donnie," he said, "Bob McGraw's free, white an' twenty-one an' he can play his own hand.
He wanted her, yes, but not as a friend as his beloved, his betrothed, his wife! By any name, but not by the name of friend. He drew away slowly as her head bowed to her knees; and at last he left her, weeping. It was best, after all, for how could he comfort her? And he could see McGraw's dust down the road.
He had dealt before with men of McGraw's character. He tore off Ashton's order, thrust it into the other's pudgy hand, and paused to scribble an order to hold the train on the shore span. On occasion McGraw could be nimble both in mind and body. The moment he had read Ashton's order, he wheeled about to rush back the way he had come, and let out a bull-like bellow: "Hi, youse! clear f'r trav'ller!
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