"He's gone to make—a big fight, Con. He will not take the fortune unless he wins. Filmer's got some of the old man in him, I bet."
"Yes. Is—is his mother living? Has he any one to go to—out there?"
"No one, Con. From what he told me, I gathered that it was to be a fight with the odds—against him."
There was a long pause. A package again dropped to the floor. The girl outside stooped to gather it up; dropped two or three more, then straightened herself with an impatient exclamation.
"He'll win out!" The words sounded like a rally call. With that the girl fled down the hall, trilling the merriest sort of a Christmas tune.
At three o'clock St. Angé turned out in force, and set its face toward the bungalow.
Leon Tate had decided that to put a cheerful front to the foe was the wiser thing to do, so he closed the Black Cat and arrayed his oily person in his best raiment, kept heretofore for the Government Inspector and Hillcrest potentates, and drove his wife himself up to Drew's fête.
"Do you know," he said, as they started, "Brown Betty looks as played out as if she had been druv instead of loafing in the stable."
"She do look beat," Isa agreed. "What's that in the bottom of the sled, Tate?" she suddenly asked.
Tate picked it up.