Before turning in for the night, Barry went to the river's edge, and stood looking up at the stars holding their steadfast watch over the turbulent and tossing waters below.
“Quiet, ain't they?” said a voice at his shoulder.
“Why, you startled me, Mr. McCuaig; I never heard you step.”
McCuaig laughed his quiet laugh.
“Got to move quietly in this country,” he said, “if you are going to keep alive.”
A moment or so he stood by Barry's side, looking up with him at the stars.
“No fuss, up there,” he said, interpreting Barry's mood and attitude. “Not like that there pitchin', tossin', threatenin' water.”
“No,” said Barry, “but though they look quiet, I suppose if we could really see, there is a most terrific whirling of millions of stars up there, going at the rate of thousands of miles a minute.”
“Millions of 'em, and all whirlin' about,” said McCuaig in an awe-stricken voice. “It's a wonder they don't hit.”
“They don't hit because they each keep their own orbit,” said Barry, “and they obey the laws of their existence.”