something to be left forever and irretrievably behind,--left with the
healthy life they had been leading, the cheerful endeavor, the undying
hopefulness which it had fostered and blessed. Was what they WERE taking
away worth it? And oddly enough, frank and outspoken as they had always
been to each other, that common thought remained unuttered. Even Barker
was silent; perhaps he was also thinking of Kitty.
Suddenly two figures appeared in the very doorway of the cabin. The
effect was startling upon the partners, who had only just reseated
themselves, and for a moment they had forgotten that the narrow band
of light which shot forth from the open door rendered the darkness on
either side of it more impenetrable, and that out of this darkness,
although themselves guided by the light, the figures had just emerged.
Yet one was familiar enough. It was the Hill drunkard, Dick Hall, or,
as he was called, "Whiskey Dick," or, indicated still more succinctly by
the Hill humorists, "Alky Hall."
Everybody had seen that sodden, puffy, but good-humored face; everybody
had felt the fiery exhalations of that enormous red beard, which always
seemed to be kept in a state of moist, unkempt luxuriance by liquor;
everybody knew the absurd dignity of manner and attempted precision of
statement with which he was wont to disguise his frequent excesses.
Very few, however, knew, or cared to know, the pathetic weariness and
chilling horror that sometimes looked out of those bloodshot eyes.
He was evidently equally unprepared for the three silent seated figures
before the door, and for a moment looked at them blankly with the doubts
of a frequently deceived perception. Was he sure that they were quite
real? He had not dared to look at his companion for verification, but
smiled vaguely.
"Good-evening," said Demorest pleasantly.
Whiskey Dick's face brightened. "Good-evenin', good-evenin' yourselves,
boys--and see how you like it! Lemme interdrush my ole frien' William
J. Steptoe, of Red Gulch. Stepsho--Steptoe--is shtay--ish stay--"
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