In his musings, Tom thought of poor old Caleb and his cane, of his wanderings, and of himself, Tom, finding a haven for him at last. He thought of the old man’s sturdy hatred and defiance of the great reservoir and of his resolute conviction of his grandson’s innocence.
But Tom knew more about it than poor old Caleb did, and this train of musing turned his thoughts to Brent Gaylong, good old Brent, and how he had sat on the stool in the newspaper office in Kingston with the full account of the whole business open before him.
He thought (he did not know why) of something that Brent had said to him. He was always recalling things that Brent said. “You can have anything you want if you’re willing to pay the price. I can have the gold cup in Administration Shack but I’d go to jail and that would be the price.”
Tom had laughed at the time but now he was appalled at the awful truth of it. For he knew now—as he lay there wide awake in the little cottage on the summit of Overlook Mountain—he knew that the sprightly Goodfellow was his, that he could stand upon its deck and look about and say, “She’s mine!” That he could raise his owner’s pennant and sail away in her if he really wanted to. Two thousand reward....
Price!
Good old ramshackle, lanky, whimsical Brent. How Tom Slade wished that he could see him now. So that he could tell him the price didn’t interest him....
CHAPTER XXVII
THE CRIMINAL
Then Tom fell to thinking about Anson Dyker and wondering where he had been in that long interval since his crime. He had been to the war, and Tom was glad of that, for his service and his cruel wound seemed like an atonement. But all the while Tom knew that there is no atonement for murder—but one. And the thought made him shudder.
He emerged the next morning, troubled and perplexed after a restless night. It seemed to him that he had lived over the whole drama in which the Dykers and the old village and the great reservoir had played a part. Perhaps he saw the little family’s sorrow and trouble more vividly than he was able to picture that other home in Kingston where blind murder had stalked. Yet he did think of old Henry Merrick and saw him through the haze of time as a kindly old man.