ward in this world. But the taste of the old years dried his mouth and blinded his eyes as Ormond brought Navy-cut, and decanters that sparkled, and pushed a cushioned chair where the firelight shone. He sloughed his pride with his oil-skins, and sat down. But his tongue was dumb, and Ormond guessed why, with a sudden pity and shame. Father Denis sailed down-wind breezily.
“Bedad; ye’re jist the man I’m wantin’ the handlin’ ov this long while,” he said.
“How so?” Randal’s voice showed suspicion on the undertow.
“Ye’re strong. That boy there’s another.” He jerked a fat thumb at Ormond. “Ye’re both good men in yer hand———”
“You mistake,” said Randal, sharply. “I’m a hand myself.”
“Blathers! A strong man houlds men all over the worrld an’ back agin. An’ ye can git where I can’t git, Randal. Intu Blake's bar-parlour———”
“You’d not find much you cared for there.”
“I’d find men.” He blew smoke from his nostrils, and his big heart shone in his eyes, “I’m wantin’ men,” he said.
Ormond’s grin showed the white teeth gripped on the pipe-stem.
“Men like Lou Birot—and Jimmie Blaine—and Rogers?” he suggested.
“I’m wid ye, entoirely. Them most ov all.
