“God, if I could only raise five hundred bucks! I could get Jim Gordon’s Kittiwink for that, and provision it, too. Make a break for Cuba, or Honduras; why, damn it, I could go round the world—go East—get away from all this preaching and rough-house—live like a man, by God!”
The captain’s hail shattered Hal’s dreams.
“Devil take the old man!” snarled Hal to himself as he scowled up at the figure on the hilltop. “What’s he want now? And devil take all women! They’re like dogs. Beat a dog and a woman, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll play this game to win yet, and make good! Hello, up there?” he shouted in reply to the captain. “What d’you want of me?”
“I want to talk with you, Hal,” the old man’s voice came echoing down. “Come here, sir!”
Another moment Hal hesitated. Then, realizing that he could not yet raise the banner of open rebellion, he turned and lagged toward the road that led up the south side of the hill.
As he climbed, he put into the background of his brain the plans he had been formulating, and for the more pressing need of the future began framing plausible lies.
He lighted a Turkish cigarette as he entered the graveyard, to give himself a certain nonchalance; and so, smoking this thing which the old captain particularly abominated, swinging his shoulders, he came along the graveled walk toward the family burying lot, where once more Captain Briggs had sat down upon the bench to wait for him.