The horse moved off, and Andy McFardell glanced round at the choreman.
“So long, Lightning. I’m going after that matter—after Thursday.”
But the old man still made no reply. He sat there on his old mare’s back stolidly intent and watchful. His unfriendliness was adamant. And Molly became completely alarmed.
Andy rode off. His way took him up past the barn, and he disappeared beyond it, round the lean-to workshop, and headed eastwards for his home.
The moment he had passed out of view Molly turned on Lightning who had slid down from Jane’s broad back. A flush dyed her pretty cheeks, and an angry sparkle lit her eyes.
“I—I won’t stand for it, Lightning!” she cried, stamping her foot on the hard, dusty ground. “It’s mean. It’s so mean I can’t believe it. He’s been right into Hartspool and paid five dollars for my ticket. He’s paid that for me! Just to hand me a swell time. I——”
“Don’t ’ee do it, Molly, gal. Just don’t ’ee do it.”
Lightning was transformed. All the stony light of his eyes had changed to one of humble pleading as he stood before the child he loved better than life itself. His lean face seemed suddenly to have become more deeply lined, and his tatter of whisker looked more than usually grotesque and pathetic. His hands were outheld in appeal.
“Fer the love o’ yer dead father, Molly, don’t ’ee go fer to do it,” he went on. “He’s bad. He’s rotten——”
“Don’t dare say it, Lightning! Don’t ever dare say it. He’s not bad. He’s—oh!”