“Now look here, B. C.,” said George,—then he stopped dead. A sudden great uplift had come in his mind. Perhaps it was the night of stars through which they were driving or some waft from old Harley du Cane, the railway wrecker, who, still, always had his hand in his pocket for any unfortunate; perhaps he had long and sub-consciously been debating in his mind the case of Candon: who knows?
“You were going to say—?” said Candon.
“Just this,” said George. “Close up on the penitentiary business. There’s worse men than you in the church, B. C., or I’m a nigger. You’re going to have a home yet and a jolly good one. I’ve got it for you.”
“Where?”
“In my pocket. Fruit farming, that’s your line, and a partner that can put up the dollars—that’s me.”
Candon was silent for a moment.
“It’s good of you,” said he at last, “damn good of you. I reckon I could make a business pay if it came to that, but there’s more than dollars, Bud. I reckon I was born a wild duck. I’ve no anchor on board that wouldn’t pull out of the mud first bit of wind that’d make me want to go wandering.”
“I’ll fix you up with an anchor,” said Bud, “somehow or other. You leave things to me and trust your uncle Bud.”
He was thinking of getting Candon married, somehow, to some girl. He could almost visualize her: a big, healthy, honest American girl, businesslike, with a heart the size of a cauliflower—some anchor.
“Sun’s coming,” said George, turning and stirring Hank awake with the point of his toe. Hank sat up yawning.