Her boy--her boy--and
his poor hair! "Away, my rolling river!" Swaying over, she lay face
down, clasping at the wet grass and the earth.
The sun rose, laid a pale bright streak along the water, and hid himself
again. A robin twittered in the willows; a leaf fell on her bare ankle.
Winton, who had been hunting on Saturday, had returned to town on Sunday
by the evening tram, and gone straight to his club for some supper.
There falling asleep over his cigar, he had to be awakened when they
desired to close the club for the night. It was past two when he reached
Bury Street and found a telegram.
"Something dreadful happened to Mr. Summerhay. Come quick.--BETTY."
Never had he so cursed the loss of his hand as during the time that
followed, when Markey had to dress, help his master, pack bags, and
fetch a taxi equipped for so long a journey. At half-past three they
started. The whole way down, Winton, wrapped in his fur coat, sat a
little forward on his seat, ready to put his head through the window
and direct the driver. It was a wild night, and he would not let Markey,
whose chest was not strong, go outside to act as guide. Twice that
silent one, impelled by feelings too strong even for his respectful
taciturnity, had spoken.
"That'll be bad for Miss Gyp, sir."
"Bad, yes--terrible."
And later:
"D'you think it means he's dead, sir?"
Winton answered sombrely:
"God knows, Markey! We must hope for the best.
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