“You’d nerve enough when you soaked Lutcher, this morning,” Sam reminded him. “I was proud of you, m’ son. You’ve give me many a laugh, Wint, but I was proud o’ your cool nerve this day.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about Lutcher.”
“I’d not be. Him nor his. The old buzzard of a Kite, neither.”
Wint said: “I don’t know. Kite’s got something up his sleeve.”
“That’s as much as to say that he’s tricky. It’s these magicians that has things up their sleeves. Full of tricks. You stick to the middle of the road, Wint, and never mind their tricks. They’ll trick their own selves.”
Wint shook his head. “That’s all right. But what can I do?”
“Do?” Sam echoed. “Why, fight ’em like that dog of yours fit Mrs. Moody’s Jim.” He nodded to Muldoon, curled as always near Wint’s feet; and Wint dropped his hand to Muldoon’s grizzled head. He was apt to turn to Muldoon in trouble. The dog was his shadow, always with him; but it was when he was troubled that Wint gave most heed to the terrier. At Wint’s caress, Muldoon rolled his eyes up without moving his head; and Sam said:
“Look at him grin; the nervy pup. He’s telling you to take a brace, m’ son. You can’t scare the dog.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You act damn like it,” said Sam frankly; and Wint protested: