“What in thunder are you up to?” he asked.
“Not much––yet!” Twombley admitted. “Don’t hit the hole more than once out of four.”
“But the noise is bad for folks, Twombley.”
“They like it,” Twombley broke in. “Makes ’em jump and know they’re alive. It’s like fleas on dogs.”
“When I’m talking business with Rivers,” Twombley insisted, “I hate the racket.”
“All right, when I see you there, I’ll hold off.”
But Maclin did not want always to be seen at the shack. 159 It was one thing to stroll down to the Point, now and again, with that air of having made mistakes in the past and greeting the Pointers pleasantly, and quite another to find out, secretly, just what progress Larry was making in his interests and knowing what Larry was doing with his long days and nights.
So, after a fortnight of consideration, Maclin walked with Rivers from the mines one night determined to spend several hours in the shack and “use his eyes.” Larry did not seem particularly pleased with this intention and paused several times on the rough, dusky road, giving Maclin an opportunity to bid him good-night. But Maclin stuck like the little brown devil-pitchforks that decorated the trousers of both men as they strode on the woodside of the road.
“I’m like a rat in a hole,” Larry confided, despairing of shaking Maclin off. “I wish to God you’d send me away somewhere––overseas, if you can. You once promised that.”
Maclin’s eyes contracted, but it was too dark for Rivers to notice.