on you. And by Heaven I will!"

He wiped his forehead with a shaky hand. The room was warm, the lamp
flickering hotly in the summer breeze. He thought of Joan and the
ferry. Did she scull the old, flat-bottomed punt back and forth, back
and forth, when the winter wind was howling up the river? What did she
wear when winter settled, sharp and bleak, upon the ridge? Kenny
shivered. He pictured her vividly in furs, warm and rosy, and hated
the lynx-like eyes of the miser in the wheel-chair who doled out
grudging pennies for nothing but his brandy. There was much that he
could say if he told the truth; much the old man must be told if later
Joan with her secret tears was to be saved the brunt of his hellish
torment. He would force Adam Craig to stop the ferry. He would force
him to buy furs. He would force him to endorse Mr. Abbott and his
kindness, force him to grant Joan her books and the right to study, if
she chose. Why in Heaven's name should she creep through rain and snow
and shadows to the refuge in the pines?

He was dangerously excited with the fever of the old crusader in his
veins. And then he thought of the trust in Joan's eyes when his tongue
rambled, and went cold with shame. He must learn to tell the truth.
He would practice for his own sake--and for the sake of Joan.

With a sense of shock he realized that he had been very far away. Adam
was choking and wheezing and gasping himself into weakness.

"For God's sake," exclaimed Kenny with a feeling of guilt, "what's the
matter? Are you laughing or choking?"

"I'm laughing," said Adam, shaking with mirth. "Kenny, I'm just
laughing."

"Well," said Kenny huffily, "laugh your head off if you want to. I
mean what I say."

The old man chuckled.

"I'd be disappointed," he said, "if you didn't."

Kenny stared at him in intense disgust. A perverse old lunatic! He
would like his new diversion less perhaps as time went on.

"I want you to forget," Adam said abruptly, "about last night. I
was--jealous. I hate your health. I--hate your straight legs--Oh, My
God!" he whispered, shuddering, and closed his eyes. When he opened
them his smile was ghastly.

"Kenny," he said with a pitiful air of bravado, "do you know a tune, an
Irish tune called 'Eileen Aroon'?"

"Yes," said Kenny, clearing his throat. "Yes."

"Whistle it."

Kenny obeyed. His eyes were sympathetic,

"Well," said Adam in muffled tones, "it isn't Irish. It's Robin Ada