ore. She had
threatened dire restrictions against them who failed to support her cause
should her cause be won in spite of them; she had even hinted at cash
payments to insure her against want if, possibly, her license was
revoked, but this shutting down upon human rights before election came
off was upsetting to the last degree. Hornby looked at McAlpin and
McAlpin dropped his eyes; there was a muttering and a grumbling, and a
general feeling prevailed that every man should be his own keeper and
the guardian of his own sons, and it would be a bitter wrong against a
God-be-praised widow to let family affairs ruin her business.

In the end Mary McAdam, with a manly following of stern upholders of
individual rights and the opportunity for mutual good fellowship, retired
to the bar of the White Fish and, waited upon by Mary herself and her two
exemplary sons, made merry far into the evening.

Tom and Sandy McAdam, handsome, carefree boys of sixteen and eighteen,
passed the drinks with many a jest and often a wink, but never a drop
drank they, not until the Lodge had closed its doors on all visitors, and
then Tom, the elder, with a final leer at Sandy the younger, drained off
a glass of bad whisky with a grace that betokened long practice.

"Hold, there!" cautioned Sandy, filling a glass of beer for himself;
"you'll not be able to hide it from the mother, you galoot."

"Oh, the night's long before the day breaks, and it's yourself as must
take the turn at house chores the morning."

The following day was cloudy and threatening, and why Mary McAdam should
take that time for suggesting that her boys go over to Wyland Island and
buy their winter suits, she herself could not have told. Perhaps, from
the assurance of last night, she felt freer with money; perhaps she
thought the boys could not be spared so well later; be that as it might,
she insisted, even against Sandy's remark that "a lad couldn't put his
mind to a winter outfit with the sweat rolling down his back," that they
should set forth by eleven o'clock.

"Make a lark of it," said she generously; "take that scapegoat Jerry-Jo
McAlpin with you and have it out with him about being a young beast and
worrying the heart out of old Jerry, who means well but ain't got no kind
of a headpiece. Take your lunch along and----"

Here she pointed her remarks with a lean, commanding finger: "You take
that sail off the launch! It's quiet enough now, but it ain't going to
last