"I won't have you talk that way to me, Dennis Quigg! I never said a word to you, and you know it." Her mother's spirit was now flashing in her eyes. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself to come here--and"--Then she broke down.
Another woman would have managed it differently, perhaps,--by a laugh, a smile of contempt, or a frigid refusal. This mere child, stung to the quick by Quigg's insult, had only her tears in defense. The Walking Delegate turned his head and looked out of the window. Then he caught up his hat and without a word to the sobbing girl hastily left the room.
Tom was just entering the lower gate. Quigg saw her and tried to dodge behind the tool-house, but it was too late, so he faced her.
Tom's keen eye caught the sly movement and the quickly altered expression. Some new trickery was in the air, she knew; she detected it in every line of Quigg's face. What was McGaw up to now? she asked herself. Was he after Carl and the men, or getting ready to burn the other stable?
"Good-morning, Mr. Quigg. Ain't ye lost?" she asked coldly.
"Oh no," said Quigg, with a forced laugh. "I come over to see if I could help about the fire."
It was the first thing that came into his head; he had hoped to pass with only a nod of greeting.
"Did ye?" replied Tom thoughtfully. She saw he had lied, but she led him on. "What kind of help did ye think of givin'? The insurance company will pay the money, the two horses is buried, an' we begin diggin' post-holes for a new stable in the mornin'.
Perhaps ye were thinkin' of lendin' a hand yerself. If ye did, I can put ye alongside of Carl; one shovel might do for both of ye."
Quigg colored and laughed uneasily. Somebody had told her, then, how Carl had threatened him with uplifted shovel when he tried to coax the Swede away.
"No, I'm not diggin' these days; but I've got a pull wid the insurance adjuster, and might git an extra allowance for yer."
This was cut from whole cloth. He had never known an adjuster in his life.
"What's that?" asked Tom, still looking square at him, Quigg squirming under her glance like a worm on a pin.
"Well, the company can't tell how much feed was in the bins, and tools, and sech like," he said, with another laugh.
A laugh is always a safe parry when a pair of clear gray search-light eyes are cutting into one like a rapier.
"An' yer idea is for me to git paid for stuff that wasn't burned up, is it?"
"Well, that's as how the adjuster says. Sometimes he sees it an' sometimes he don't--that's where the pull comes in."
Tom put her arms akimbo, her favorite attitude when her anger began to rise.
"Oh I see! The pull is in bribin' the adjuster, as ye call him, so he can cheat the company."
Quigg shrugged his shoulders; that part of the transaction was a mere trifle. What were companies made for but to be cheated?
Tom stood for a minute looking him all over.
"Dennis Quigg," she said slowly, weighing each word, her eyes riveted on his face, "ye're a very sharp young man; ye're so very sharp that I wonder ye've gone so long without cuttin' yerself, But one thing I tell ye, an' that is, if ye keep on the way ye're a-goin' ye'll land where you belong, and that's up the river in a potato-bug suit of clothes. Turn yer head this way, Quigg. Did ye niver in yer whole life think there was somethin' worth the havin' in bein' honest an' clean an' square, an' holdin' yer head up like a man, instead of skulkin' round like a thief? What ye're up to this mornin' I don't know yet, but I want to tell ye it 's the wrong time o' day for ye to make calls, and the night's not much better, unless ye're particularly invited."
Quigg smothered a curse and turned on his heel toward the village.
When he reached O'Leary's, Dempsey of the Executive Committee met him at the door. He and McGaw had spent the whole morning in devising plans to keep Tom out of the board-room.
Quigg's report was not reassuring. She would be paid her insurance money, he said, and would certainly be at the meeting that night.
The three adjourned to the room over the bar. McGaw began pacing the floor, his long arms hooked behind his back. He had passed a sleepless night, and every hour now added to his anxiety. His face was a dull gray yellow, and his eyes were sunken. Now and then he would tug at his collar nervously. As he walked he clutched his fingers, burying the nails in the palms, the red hair on his wrists bristling like spiders' legs. Dempsey sat at the table watching him calmly out of the corner of his eye.
After a pause Quigg leaned over, his lips close to Dempsey's ear.
Then he drew a plan on the back of an old wine-list. It marked the position of the door in Tom's stable, and that of a path which ran across lots and was concealed from her house by a low fence.
Dempsey studied it a moment, nodding at Quigg's whispered explanations, and passed it to McGaw, repeating Quigg's words.
McGaw stopped and bent his head. A dull gleam flashed out of his smouldering eyes. The lines of his face hardened and his jaw tightened. For some minutes he stood irresolute, gazing vacantly over the budding trees through the window. Then he turned sharply, swallowed a brimming glass of raw whiskey, and left the room.
When the sound of his footsteps had died away, Dempsey looked at Quigg meaningly and gave a low laugh.
