Old Campbell’s grim face cracked in a genial smile as he rose and led the way to the corner containing the bookshelves.
“We will now step into the library,” he chuckled. “Sit ye down.”
He pushed one of the easy chairs toward Toppy, and from a cupboard under the reading-table drew a bottle of Scotch whisky of a celebrated brand. Toppy’s whole being suddenly cried out for a drink as his eyes fell on the familiar four stars.
“Say when, lad,” said Campbell, pouring into a generous glass. “Well?” He looked at Toppy in surprise as the glass filled up. Something had smitten Toppy like a blow between the eyes——“How can nice boys like you throw themselves away?” And the pity of the girl as she had said it was large before him.
“Thanks,” said Toppy, seating himself, “but I’m on the wagon.”
The old smith looked up at him shrewdly from the corners of his eyes.
“Oh, aye!” he grunted. “I see. Well, by the puffs under your eyes ye have overdone it; and for fleeing the temptations of the world I know of no better place ye could go to than this. For it’s certain neither temptations nor luxuries will be found in Hell Camp while the Snow-Burner’s boss.”
“Now you interest me,” said Toppy grimly. “The Snow-Burner—Hell-Camp Reivers—Mr. Reivers—the boss. What kind of a human being is he, if he is human?”
Campbell carefully mixed his whisky with hot water.
“You saw him manhandle Rosky?” he asked, seating himself opposite Toppy.