He flung himself into a chair by the stove and drowsing after a while in a reactive sweep of exhaustion, awakened with a terrified jerk. A boy was banking the red-hot stove, his white face like and yet unlike—Joan's.
"Mr. O'Neill," he blurted with a boyish sob, "I—I did it. I was driving the mule-cart up the path. Grogan told me not to but I—I coaxed Tony. And when some earth crumbled ahead I jerked back—too quickly—and scared the mule. I've got to tell somebody. I've got to… And nobody listens—"
"Tell me the rest," said Kenny wanly. "I've been wonderin'."
"You see, Mr. O'Neill," he gulped, his eyes dark with grief and horror, "the mule went back upon his haunches and drove the cart against a boulder. It came out and crashed over the ledge and through the roof of the dynamite shack—"
"God!" In that vivid moment of his picturing, Kenny wondered why he should think of bouillon cups crashing loudly on a roof.
"And the other men were only scratched. A while ago—when Brian sent for me—he thought of it through all his pain—"
"He would," said Kenny.
"I—I wanted to kill myself."
"Oh, nonsense," said Kenny kindly.
Don flung his arm across his eyes and sobbed aloud.