He had not heard Michael enter, and lay moaning brokenly. Michael had not thought of Potch since the people at Newton's told him that a few minutes, after the coach had gone Potch had come down to the hotel to cut wood and do odd jobs in the stable, as he usually did. Mrs. Newton said he stared at her, aghast, when she told him that his father had left on the coach. Then he had started off at a run, taking the short cut across country to the Three Mile.
Michael put out his hand. He could not endure that crying.
"Potch!" he said.
At the sound of his voice, Potch was silent. After a second he struggled to his feet, and stood facing Michael.
"He's gone, Michael!" he cried.
"He might have taken you," Michael said.
"Taken me!" Potch's exclamation did away with any idea Michael had that his son was grieving for Charley. "It wasn't that I minded——"
Michael did not know what to say. Potch continued:
"As soon as I knew, I went after him—thought I'd catch up the coach at the Three Mile, and I did. I told him he'd have to come back—or hand out that money. I saw you give it to him the other night and arrange about going to Warria.... Mr. Ventry pulled up. But he ... set the horses going again. I tried to stop them, but the sandy bay let out a kick and they went on again.... The swine!"
Michael had never imagined this stolid son of Charley's could show such fire. He was trembling with rage and indignation. Michael rarely lost his temper, but the blood rushed to his head in response to Potch's story. Restraint was second nature with him, though, and he waited until his own and Potch's fury had ebbed.