They obeyed with enthusiasm. Glasses and things were brought by Noreen. Jerry sat rigid at the head, perspiration upon his brow, the struggle for light to think by in his brain. The men felt the strain, and pitied the woman.
“And what does England do in all this?” Cardinegh asked huskily, after a painful pause.
Old Feeney was nearest the dean. He dropped his hand upon the other’s arm in a quiet way. “England boosts for Japan, Jerry,” he replied. All were eager to relieve the strain by a detailed discussion on any subject, but the dean renewed:
“And is all quiet in India?”
“Quiet as the ‘orchard lands of long ago,’” said Finacune.
There was something in the old man’s voice which suggested to Noreen the long forgotten passion—so out of place here. She trembled lest he should prove unable to handle himself.
“England——” Cardinegh rumbled the name. It was as if he were fighting for a grasp upon all that the gigantic word had meant to him. “England ought to be down there fighting the Czar on the British-Indian border—not on the Yalu.”
It was clear to all why England was not embroiled with Russia—the Anglo-Japanese alliance—save to the old man who should have known best. The truth thundered now in the clouds of his brain, but he could not interpret. Nobody spoke, for the dean’s hand was raised to hold the attention. The gesture was a pitiful attempt to assist him to concentrate. He faltered helplessly, and finally uttered the words nearest his lips:
“Finacune, the florid,—you’re for the Word as usual?”
They all breathed again. The old man had found a lead.