Cameron was sitting at the small, uneven table, a bottle of rum and glasses before him. McNab on the other side of the table, leaning across it was talking to him, his voice running glibly. The light of an oil lamp on the table between them showed his yellow, eager eyes, the scheming intensity of the brain behind them, the lurking half-smile of triumph about his writhing, colourless lips. M'Laughlin, leaning lazily back in his chair, his long legs stretched under the table, sat watching and listening to him.
McNab sprang to his feet with an oath when he saw Davey in the doorway.
"Mother's waiting for you outside," he said, lifting Donald Cameron by the elbows and leading him to the door.
He turned on McNab with his back to it.
"I'll be looking after my father's affairs from this out," he said. "And you remember what I promised you if you interfered with me again ... you'll get it sure as I live."
He slammed the door.
Donald Cameron, stupid with McNab's heavy spirits, was unprepared for this masterful young man whose rage was burning to a white heat. He went with him as quietly as as a child.
Davey helped him into the buggy.
"Keep him away from McNab," he said to his mother, "and I'll be home as soon as I can."
She smiled, the shy, happy smile of a girl, nodded to him, and they drove off.