The Airedale, hearing Hal’s step, got up and fawned against him. Hal, with an obscene oath, kicked the animal.
“Get out o’ my way, you—” he growled. The dog, yelping, still cringed after him as he descended the steps. Mad with the blind passion that kills, Hal flung down his suit-cases, snatched up the dog and dashed it down on the steps with horrible force.
“Damn you, don’t you touch that dog again!” shouted old Dr. Filhiol, hobbling out the door.
He brandished his cane. In his pale face flamed holy rage. With a boisterous, horrible laugh, Hal snatched the cane from him, snapped it with one flirt of his huge hands, and threw the pieces into the doctor’s face.
The dog, still crying out with the pain of a broken leg, tried to drag himself to Hal. Another oath, a kick, and Ruddy sprawled along the porch.
“I’ve fixed you a while, you fossil quack!” gibed Hal at the doctor. “Maybe you’ll butt in again where you’re not wanted! Lucky for you I’m in a hurry now, or I’d do a better job!”
Again Hal picked up his cases, and strode down the walk, against the rain and gale. At the gate he paused, triumphant.
“To hell with this place!” he cried. “To hell with the whole business and with all o’ you!”
Then he passed through the gate, along the hedge, and vanished in the boisterous storm.
Up in Hal’s room, old Ezra was still convulsed with senile grief. The captain, his face white and lined, had sunk down on the bed and with vacant eyes was staring at the books and papers strewn there in confusion.