“I went to school a little. Not much. Couldn’t stand it ’less’n the winders was open. But I learnt readin’. I see a piece ’bout a feller that said ‘Gimme liberty or gimme death.’ That’s me. I live free—if it’s into a hole. Mebbe I die into the same hole. But I die free—not like a rat into a house-wall. Gimme liberty or——”
A tearing spasm of muffled coughing ended his talk. When it had passed he slumped down against the side of the cavern, his brow knotted in agony, his hand rubbing feebly, but his gaunt jaw set like the rock against which he leaned. And Douglas, after a moment more of grave study, gave him up. He was not to have company in his haunted house after all. His toil last night on the rear door and the bedroom window had come to naught.
Yet the time was to come when, despite the flat refusal of the fugitive to leave his den, that smooth-sliding back window in Hampton’s home was to serve Steve well.
CHAPTER XXI
THE HAND OF THE GHOST
Douglas pushed off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, puzzling over what to do now. Despite Marion’s prediction, he had not seriously considered the possibility of an inflexible rejection of his offer, and now he was somewhat at a loss.
Squatting beside Steve, he absently dug up his empty pipe and puffed at it, thinking. Steve looked wistful, but said nothing. Marion, sitting on a little leaf-cushioned projection of stone, watched both of them unobserved.
The contrast between the two male faces was striking. Douglas, blond, strong, clean of skin and clear-cut of feature, thoughtfully serious, working out the problem of helping another: Steve, swarthy, wan, black-bristled, unkempt, grim-jawed, determined to follow his own course despite reason and sense; truly, they seemed as opposite as light and darkness, as blithe hope and sombre desperation. Yet the dark face, perhaps, would strike more forcefully on vibrant heart-strings; for mingled with its resolution was an unconscious pathos. To a sympathetic eye, too, the ragged, shapeless clothing of the younger man would have appealed more strongly than the well-fitting garb of the other. But Marion was not looking at the dress of the pair. Silently, steadfastly, here in her dream-cavern she was studying faces—and men.
“Well,” Douglas said slowly, removing his pipe—and stopped. He saw the hollow eyes, eloquent with tobacco-hunger, follow the motion of the blackened briar. Wiping its stem on a sleeve, he passed it over. Steve grabbed it and began eagerly sucking in the strong incense of bygone smokes. The little touch of comradeship was not lost on the girl, nor was the next movement of the blond man. He produced a tobacco-tin, picked out a third of its contents, and handed the rest to Steve.
“Better not smoke it,” he suggested. “The smoke will float outside. Chew it. I’ll have Uncle Eb get more for both of us. Now I won’t argue with you about moving. You say you won’t, and that ends it. But you’ve got to doctor up. You’ve got to bake that pain out of your lung, kill that cough, knock out the headache and fever, keep warm and dry. Take care of yourself. Remember you’re not so hardy as you were three years ago.”
Steve nodded, grinding the pipe-stem between his teeth.