Never in her life had Ethel Manton been so furiously angry—not because a man had been felled by a blow—she had forgotten that—but because, in demanding an explanation, in attempting to call Bill Carmody to account, she had laid herself open to his stinging rebuff.
Without pretense of defense or justification, the man had quietly told her that he knocked the swamper down "because he wanted to"; and without waiting for comment—as if the fact that "he wanted to" was sufficient in itself—had gone about his business without giving the matter a second thought.
The flash of anger, which in the first place had prompted her to speak to the man, was but an impulsive protest against what she considered an act of brutality; but that quickly passed.
The anger that surged through her heart as she gazed, white-faced, at the spot where the big man disappeared, was the bitter anger of outraged dignity and injured pride.
He had not taken the trouble to find out what she thought, for the very obvious reason that he had not cared what she thought—and so he left her. And when he had gone the girl plodded wrathfully back to camp and spoke to no one of what she had seen. But, deep down in her heart, she knew there had been a reason for Bill's act—and she knew that the reason was good.
That same evening Appleton pushed his chair back from the table and glanced toward Ethel, who had got out a bit of crochet-work. Then, with a sidewise glance at his wife, he remarked thoughtfully:
"I'm afraid I'll have to get rid of Bill. A Canuck swamper named Leduc complained to me that the boss slipped up on him and knocked him insensible with a club. I can't stand for that—not even from Bill."
At the mention of the foreman's name the girl looked up quickly.
"He didn't hit him with a club! He hit him with his fist! And there was a reason——" The girl stopped abruptly, and a wave of crimson suffused her face. She could have bitten her tongue off for speaking—for defending this man.
"How do you know?" asked her uncle in surprise.