It was unsigned and the characters, while hurriedly scrawled, were made by bold strokes, as if a strong heart had, indeed, inspired them, a strong hand penned them.
With a full-mouthed oath Kate Cathrew crumpled the bit of paper in her hand and flung it in the waste-basket against the wall.
“How did you get that?” she demanded.
“On the point of the knife you sent th’ girl,” he answered soberly, “an’ right near the middle of my stomach.”
For a considerable space of time the woman sat regarding him. “I sent you to help in the breaking of morale,” she said coldly, “not to bring me back defiance. Next time I’ll send a more trustworthy man.”
She nodded dismissal, and the youth went quickly, his face burning.
At the far end of the veranda he almost ran into Big Basford, whose huge, gorilla-like shape was made more sinister and repellant by the perceptible limp. Basford was always somewhere near, if possible, when men talked with Kate Cathrew.
His great strength and stature, his small eyes, black and rimmed with red, his unkempt head and flaring black beard, everything about him suggested a savagery and power with which few men cared to trifle.
He scanned the boy’s flushed face with swift appraising.
“I take it,” he said grinning, “that the boss wasn’t pleased with you?”