Archibald looked into the dirty, repulsive face and humbled himself before the thing he saw in it.
There was a scrap of decent soul hidden deep down in Ezra Watts, as the Smiling Lady had said, and Peg had brought it to the surface. Here was a man capable of love and sacrifice.
“You’re a very good sort, Ezra,” Archibald said slowly. “I’d like to shake hands with you.”
He held out a friendly hand and Ezra clasped it in a furtive, embarrassed fashion, but with a look of satisfaction on his ugly face.
“You stood up to ’em fine.” It was his first word of appreciation, and it came haltingly. “I went out becuz I didn’t want ’em to come in here and find him; but things looked sort of bad for me until you come along.”
“You stood up to them better than I did, man.” Archibald’s voice was husky. Souls were surprising things. “It took more courage to face another man’s punishment than to fight another man’s battle. Now I’ll go for Dr. Fullerton. When he comes, we’ll decide what to do about Pegeen.”
“O’Neill’s dying,” the doctor said, as he stood by Michael’s bed, an hour later. “You must bring Peg. It will be better for her to know that he is dead than to be always imagining he’s alone and in trouble. And, in fairness to Ezra, we ought to tell the whole truth!”
He stopped and stood thinking for a moment, then shook his head decisively.
“No; that’s wrong. It’s fairer to Ezra to let him do the generous thing for love of Peg. It’d be a pity to let his first fine sentiment be still-born. Yes; on the whole, I believe we’d better let him go with his bad reputation intact. God bless him for a thieving, big-hearted, low-down scallawag!”
And so it was arranged. The doctor drove to Pittsfield with Ezra and put him on the midnight train.