“Why, no!” he answered, steadying himself in the boat, and looking at her instead of crossing to the stern. “What’s his Loftiness been doing with himself? Getting engaged, or making ready to stand for the County? I hear he was a great man at election-time.”
Young Rowly looked up from his seat with a ripple of mirth running over his clear, young face.
“Nothing o’ that sort! He’s got religion. He’s taken to going to church!”
“Not just Sundays, to show off the fit of his coat,” Francey explained. “He’s done that, all along. Rowly means Lent services—weekday services. Brack’s there, every time!”
“But what’s taken him? Some girl gone back on him? Or has he lost another pig or something?”
She looked down at the sand. There were words on her lips, plainly enough, but she did not utter them. Rowly, however, supplied the deficiency with the same happy haste.
“If you want to know, sir, he’s praying for you!”
“For me? What in creation——! For me?”
“Yes, sir—for you. He says there’s something awful coming along, and you’re responsible for it. Says if he can only get the Almighty to listen to reason, He’ll happen let you off and give you another chance. So he goes to church every day, motor-machine, bettremer clothes an’ all!”
Lanty scrambled over, and sat down with a bump and a laugh. It was difficult to take any theory seriously that included a vision of Brack, pale-gray suit, Trilby and S.-F., waving wild arms in supplication before the Lord.