CHAPTER X. DYCK CALHOUN ENTERS THE WORLD AGAIN
“Is it near the time?” asked Michael Clones of his friend, as they stood in front of the prison.
His companion, who was seated on a stone, wrapped in dark-green coverings faded and worn, and looking pinched with cold in the dour November day, said, without lifting his head:
“Seven minutes, an’ he’ll be out, God bless him!”
“And save him and protect him!” said Michael. “He deserved punishment no more than I did, and it’s broke him. I’ve seen the grey gather at his temples, though he’s only been in prison four years. He was condemned to eight, but they’ve let him free, I don’t know why. Perhaps it was because of what he told the government about the French navy. I’ve seen the joy of life sob itself down to the sour earth. When I took him the news of his father’s death, and told him the creditors were swallowing what was left of Playmore, what do you think he did?”
Old Christopher Dogan smiled; his eyes twinkled with a mirth which had more pain than gaiety. “God love you, I know what he did. He flung out his hands, and said: ‘Let it go! It’s nothing to me.’ Michael, have I said true?”
Michael nodded.
“Almost his very words you’ve used, and he flung out his hands, as you said.
“Aye, he’ll be changed; but they’ve kept the clothes he had when he went to prison, and he’ll come out in them, I’m thinking—”
“Ah, no!” interrupted Michael. “That can’t be, for his clothes was stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn’t have him wear my clothes—he a gentleman! It wasn’t fitting. So I sent him a suit I bought from a shop, but he wouldn’t have it. He would leave prison a poor man, as a peasant in peasant’s clothes. So he wrote to me. Here is the letter.” He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and spread it out. “See-read it. Ah, well, never mind,” he added, as old Christopher shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll read it to you!” Thereupon he read the note, and added: “We’ll see him of the Calhouns risin’ high beyant poverty and misfortune some day.”