Under the lash of justice in the taunt from the man who had rescued him, Dan McGrew was silent; but the black malice in his heart seethed still more fiercely from quickened fires of hate.
CHAPTER III
Jim explained the affair to Lou, with a bitter emphasis that forbade questioning as to details.
"Dangerous Dan," he said, unable to avoid a sarcastic inflection on the adjective, "got into a fight at Murphy's. When I arrived, there were four on top of him."
"And you pulled them off, I suppose," Lou said, her lips curving to a smile in which amusement blended with admiration for the stalwart man who had spoken so curtly.
"I can't say that I exactly pulled them off," Jim answered, with a faint responsive smile. "Anyhow, I managed to get them off him, one way or another. That's the reason he's here now—worse luck!"
In the days that followed, Dangerous Dan played the hypocrite to perfection. He went no more to town. With Jim, he was all amiability, full of reminiscences concerning the long-ago, when they had pranked together in the devious ways of boys. Indeed, he was so agreeable that Jim found himself at least tolerant of the company of this guest, for whom, without any obligation whatsoever, he had assumed some measure of responsibility. For he remembered always that phrase in the letter Tom had written him: "And I think he requires the strong hands of a friend to keep him in the straight path." He felt an onerous responsibility for the visitor whom fate thrust upon him, though he detested that responsibility—and the man.
It was the time of the harvest. Jim was busy with overseeing a multitude of details in the gathering of the crops. Often, he was away from the house from dawn to dark. Nell, too, was frequently absent, for she delighted in the activities of men and horses and machines in the fields. On her pony, she spent hours in her father's company. The consequence was that Dan McGrew enjoyed unlimited opportunities of association with his host's wife. Necessarily, the intimacy of their former relations had its effect on their present intercourse. Indeed, Dan made a habit of half-jesting, half-sentimental references to that time when he had wooed so vainly. The phrase was often on his lips:
"Do you remember, Lou, when we were sweethearts—?"