“But maybe I can help you,” Allan began.
“No, you can’t; I won’t let you. I ain’t got that low,” and Nolan, crushing his hat fiercely down upon his head, strode to the door. “Good-bye,” he called over his shoulder, “an’ good luck.”
“Good-bye,” answered Allan, and watched him with something almost like respect until his figure was swallowed up in the darkness.
Outside in the night, Nolan was striding up and down, waving his clenched fists wildly in the air, his face convulsed with passion.
“Th’ fool!” he muttered, hoarsely. “Th’ fool! Th’ goody-goody ape! Wanted t’ help me! Oh, I couldn’t ’a’ stood it—I’d ’a’ been at his throat in a minute more. I’ll show him! I’ll show him!”
He circled the shanty cautiously until he reached a spot whence, through the window, he could see Allan bending over his key. He shook his fist at the unconscious boy in a very ecstasy of rage.
“I’ll fix ye!” he cried. “I’ll fix ye!”
He saw Allan stir uneasily in his chair, as though he had heard the threat, and for an instant he stood motionless, with bated breath, his clenched fist still in the air. Then he realized the impossibility of being overheard at such a distance, and laughed weakly to himself.
“You’ve lost yer nerve, Dan,” he said. “You’ve lost yer nerve! No, I’m blamed if y’ have!” and he straightened up again and shook his fist fiercely in the air.