In his mind the Mounted Police were entirely to blame. Before they interfered he was having only an exhilarating frolic with Mason. It was that strange hold of one of the red-coats—it almost broke his neck, and twisted his arm so that it still ached—that did the thing.
And so, with the capacity for stubborn hatred that required much rousing but defied conciliation, he never forgave them. They had besmirched his honour—for four months he was ashamed to show himself in the den under the barber shop—and nothing could remove the stain. He would grind his teeth and swear that if a Mounted Policeman were dying at his feet for a glass of water he would not stoop to give it to him.
When Cockney entered their bedroom in the hotel he was too angry to speak. Mary was waiting for him, thoughtfully rocking in an old rocker that was supposed to make cosy a room that had outlasted its decorations and furnishings years ago. He glanced at her swiftly, but whatever she had in mind, his sullen mood seemed to alter it.
The clerk knocked and enquired if anything was wanted.
"Yes," cried Cockney, "a big whisky—straight."
His wife studied him anxiously as she went about preparing to retire. The hideous life that would be hers for the next few days was commencing earlier than usual. Yet she was thankful to be there to look after him.
Me seized the glass when it was handed through the crack of the door, stared at it a second, and placed it on the washstand untouched.
"I'll be away for a few days," he told Mary casually, as he washed. "You'd better sleep in; it's been a stiff day for you."
"You've had seventy miles of Pink Eye to hold," she reminded him. "You need the rest more than I do."
He laughed bitterly. "Rest? There's no rest for me now for—maybe for months. I'll be back about—about Saturday, I think."