“I’m not more superstitious than other men,” he said, “but I won’t sit in the room with three candles burning. It’s damned unlucky.”
Again, as earlier in the public room, Neal thought that James Hope was going to laugh. But again the laughter got no further than his eyes.
“Now,” said Donald, “if you’ve no objection, I’ll have a fresh bottle on the table and some clean glasses. You know this inn, James Hope, what’s their best drink?”
“I have but a poor head,” said Hope. “I drink nothing but water. But I believe that the whisky is good enough.”
“Neal, my boy,” said Donald, “the wench that bought us our supper is gone to bed, and the landlord’s too drunk to carry anything upstairs. You go and fill the jug there with hot water in the kitchen, and I’ll get some whisky from the taproom.”
Donald filled himself a glass with a generous proportion of spirit, and lit his pipe again.
“I’ve a letter here, addressed to you,” he said.
He fumbled in his breast pocket, drew forth a leather case, and took from it one of the letters which Micah Ward had written. James Hope read it carefully.
“You are,” he said, “the Donald Ward mentioned in this letter, and you are Neal Ward, the son of a man whom we all respect and admire. I bid you welcome.”
He held out his hand, first to Donald, who shook it heartily, and then to Neal. He fixed his dark eyes on the young man’s face, and looked long and steadily at him. Neal’s eyes wavered and dropped before this earnest scrutiny, which seemed to read his very thoughts.