“We’ll see to that, Phil,” said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman.
Phil recognised the voice. “You think that nobody’ll kick at making it official?”
“Not one, Phil.”
“And maybe they wouldn’t mind firin’ a volley—Lights out, as it were: and blow the big whistle? It’d look sociable, wouldn’t it?”
“There’ll be a volley and the whistle, Phil—if you have to go,” said Mr. Devlin.
There was a silence, then the reply came musingly: “I guess I hev to go. ... I’d hev liked to see the corporation runnin’ longer, but maybe I can trust the boys.”
A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice: “By the holy! yes, you can trust us.”
“Thank you kindly.... If it doesn’t make any difference to the rest, I’d like to be alone with The Padre for a little—not for religion, you understand, for I go as I stayed, and I hev my views,—but for private business.”
Slowly, awkwardly, the few river-drivers passed out—Devlin and Mrs. Falchion and Ruth and I with them—for I could do nothing now for him—he was broken all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened then.
“Padre,” he said to Roscoe, “are we alone?”