The old man stood disconsolate among his ruins. There was gloom on his face as I bade him good-night, and there was a pressure in his hand grasp, as of one who did not want to be left alone. From a distance down the shore I could see the flickering light of the expiring bonfire, playing upon the scene of the recent drama, as fate toys with the destinies of human lives.
Cal’s failure to appear at his wedding was never accounted for. The following week we found his shanty deserted. Its simple furnishings and Cal’s boat were gone.
“That ol’ skeesicks ’as got more sense than I ever thought, an’ ’e’s skipped. He’ll be number four in that cemetery lot all right if ’e ever shows up,” declared Sipes as we parted. “She rough-housed me when I didn’t do nothin’, an’ I wouldn’t like to see Cal’s finish if she ever gits to ’im. The feller that ought to marry Hellfirey Smetters is Holy Zeke.”
Perhaps from somewhere out in the darkness, Cal may have studied the group around the fire on the sand. Its light may have reflected the quiet gleam of tigerish ferocity that creeps into the eyes of a woman who is made to wait. He may have been appalled by the prospect of the loss of his much-loved freedom, and recoiled from further contact with a social system which had discarded him, or he may have seen his “kitten” in a new light that dissipated illusion.
Anyway, as Sipes declared, “Elvirey’s duck” had “lit out.”
During a visit to Mrs. Smetters late in the fall, she gloomily remarked, “Now if you will tell me wot’s the use o’ livin’, I’d be very grateful!”
VIII
THE RESURRECTION OF BILL SAUNDERS
Bill Saunders