"But Jack? Now, after Prather had gone?" persisted the father greedily.
"We glad the mole go. It sort of hurt inside to think a man like him. He make you wonder what for he born."
John Wingfield, Sr. half rose in a sudden movement, as if he were about to go, but remained in response to another emotion that was stronger than the impulse.
"And Jack? He kept his head! He figured out his chances coolly! Now, that trick he played by going up on the ridge under cover of darkness?"
"No trick!" said Firio resentfully, in instinctive defence. "That the place to fight! Señor Jack he see it."
"And all through the night you kept firing?"
"Sí, after moon very bright and over our shoulders in their faces! Sí, at the little lumps that lie so still. When they move quick like they stung, we know we hit!"
"Ah, that was it! You hit! You hit! And the other fellows couldn't. You had the light with you—everything! Jack had seen to that! He used his head! He—he was strong, strong!"
Quite unconsciously, John Wingfield, Sr. rubbed his palms together.
"When you pleased you always rub your hands same as Mister Prather," observed Firio.