These whisky-runners meant everything to him, and he felt it incumbent upon him to display his most amiable side.
“Say,” he chuckled, “the bark of the old tree’s held some dollars of mine in its time. It’s a hell of a good thing that tree has a yarn to it. The folks ’ud sure fetch it down for the new church if it hadn’t. I’d say it would be awkward. We’d need a new cache for our orders and—dollars.”
Charlie shook his head.
“Guess they won’t cut it down,” he said easily. “They’re scared of the superstition.”
O’Brien abandoned his smile and became confidential.
“Ain’t you—worried some, Fyles gettin’ around?”
For a moment Charlie made no answer. The smile abruptly died out of his eyes, and a marked change came over his whole expression. He suddenly seemed to be making an effort to throw off the effects of the whisky he had consumed. He straightened himself up, and his mouth hardened. The cigarette lolling between his lips became firmly gripped. O’Brien, watching the change in him, suddenly saw his hands clench at his sides, and understood the sudden access of resentment which the mention of Fyles’s name stirred in the man. He read into what he beheld something of the real character of the “sharp,” as he understood it.
Charlie’s reply came at last. It came briefly and coldly, and O’Brien felt the sting of the rebuff.
“Guess I can look after myself,” he said.