He turned to the figure at the gate.
"Well, I hope your daughter will soon recover."
"I never have no luck, and Ethel's always been a good girl."
"Oh, luck can change they say—though I doubt it."
"Luck's a lousy wench."
"She's never so queer as when she isn't luck at all, but some person who got their knife into you."
Waite looked with dawning comprehension at the schoolmaster.
"Ay," he remarked.
The wind was rising. A little whirl of dust and straw and dried leaves blew along the path at their feet.
"The wind's getting up," said Coast. He was looking now from the rounded stacks to the man at his side, and a new desire was forming in his mind.