“He hes a train of oiled rope laid,” said she.
The plant-hand was Quarry, and still he ran toward the powder house in the vivid light. The men, most of them police, were watching him. He knelt with his light in his hand, and fell forward, the torch under him. Then Emma heard a pistol shot that sounded like snapping fingers in the din of the cinder waste.
Bentley’s voice was hardly heard in the various noise that followed the shot. “Lock up God’s eye!” he called; “it’s done big work, but don’t waste fuel.”
And a woman’s voice, peevish from fatigue, called from the height: “I can’t—I’m broken, I’m so tired!”
But Quarry did not stir; his torch was out. And in the house on the Pastures Jarlsen’s eyes strained themselves to pierce their own darkness, although the cloudy sky was like a red sea, and the plant stood out plainly with orange elm trees and bright roofs.
EPILOGUE.
We were disputing in the train as to whether it was five or six years since Quarry’s death. I said six, and was told that I was always wrong. My adversary evidently considered this second-rate rejoinder a retort. Presently he said, “You may be right, for I think Jarlsen’s boy is five.”
Jerry Black met us at the station; he wore a bailiff’s uniform of corduroy. The Bentleys were very English now, but kinder than ever. We got into an omnibus, and asked Jerry to come too. He had to be urged, for he is still modest.
“How are the Stonepastures?” said I, anxious to start the conversation.
“Lean livin’ yet,” he answered, sighing; “but we’ve got a home for the aged indigent, and a hospital.”