“You’ve heard us. It ought to help some,” stated Ward, urging his team along toward Adonia.
“The songs of the angels never will sound any better, and the angels will never look any better than those men did just now,” declared the old man, still in his softened mood.
Latisan turned about and grinned at the master.
“I know what you mean,” averred Flagg. “Of course I know. I was after pirates and I’ve got the toughest gang in the north country. Feed ’em raw meat, Latisan!”
Over the snow, which was slushy under the April sun of midday, and finally into Adonia over the rutted grit that the evening chill had frozen, the baron of the Noda was driven to the door of his mansion on the ledges.
Latisan had picked up men at the tavern as helpers.
A hail brought out a little old man whose white, close beard and fluffy hair gave his face the appearance of a likeness set into a frame of cotton batting. It was Rickety Dick; Brophy had told Latisan about him. He flung his hands above his head; it was his involuntary action when deep emotion stirred him; and his customary ejaculation was, “Praise the Lord!” It was possible that he would have shouted those words even then without regard to their irrelevance; but he was not able to utter a sound when Brophy and Latisan and the other men came bearing Flagg into the house.
The master stoutly refused to be laid in his bed. There was his big armchair in the middle of the sitting room; he commanded that he be placed there. “I can’t fight lying down. If I can’t stand up, I can sit up.”
“Praise the Lord!” cried old Dick, finding an opportunity to interject his thanksgiving phrase.
“I’ll come to you often, Mr. Flagg,” promised Ward, taking leave. “I’ll not neglect matters up the river, of course. But I want you to feel that I’m merely your right hand, moving according to your orders.”