It was the warmth of the fire which once more decided
against her reason, so she laid hands on one of the
blocks of stone to roll it nearer to the hearth.
She could not budge it. Then she caught the sneering
laughter of the man, and strove again in a fury.
It was no use; for the stone merely rocked a little
and settled back in its place with a bump.
“Here,” said the boy, “I’ll
move it for you.” It was a hard lift for
him, but he set his teeth, raised the stone in his
slender hands, and set it down again at a comfortable
distance from the fire.
“Thank you,” smiled Mary, but the boy
stood panting against the wall, and for answer merely
bestowed on her a rather malicious glance of triumph,
as though he gloried in his superior strength and despised
her weakness.
Some conversation was absolutely necessary, for the
silence began to weigh on her. She said:
“My name is Mary Brown.”
“Is it?” said the boy, quite without interest.
“You can call me Jack.”
He sat down on the other stone, his dark face swept
by the shadows of the flames, and rolled a cigarette,
not deftly, but like one who is learning the mastery
of the art. It surprised Mary, watching his fumbling
fingers. She decided that Jack must be even younger
than he looked.
She noticed also that the boy cast, from time to time,
a sharp, rather worried glance of expectation toward
the door, as if he feared it would open and disclose
some important arrival. Furthermore, those old
worn shirts hanging on the wall were much too large
for the throat and shoulders of Jack.
Apparently, he lived there with some companion, and
a companion of such a nature that he did not wish
him to be seen by visitors. This explained the
lad’s coldness in receiving a guest; it also
stimulated Mary to linger about a few more minutes.
Not that she stayed there without a growing fear,
but she still felt about her, like the protection
of some invisible cloak, the presence of the strange
guide who had followed her up the valley of the Old
Crow.
It seemed as if the boy were reading her mind.
“See you got two horses. Come up alone?”
“Most of the way,” said Mary, and tingled
with a rather feline pleasure to see that her curtness
merely sharpened the interest of Jack.
The boy puffed on his cigarette, not with long, slow
breaths of inhalation like a practiced smoker, but
with a puckered face as though he feared that the
fumes might drift into his eyes.
“Why,” thought Mary, “he’s
only a child!”
Her heart warmed a little as she adopted this view
of her surly host. Being warmed, and having much
to say, words came of themselves. Surely it would
do no harm to tell the story to this queer urchin,
who might be able to throw some light on the nature
of the invisible protector.
“I started with a man for guide.”
She fixed a searching gaze on the boy. “His
name was Dick Wilbur.”
