"Well, rather!"--from Hawksley.

"Bo, listen to me. Out there you must remember that 'bally' and

'ripping' and 'rather' are premeditated insults. Gee-whiz! but I'd

like a look-see when you say to your rough-and-readies: 'Bally rotten

weather. What?' They'll shoot you up."

More banter; which fooled none of the three, as each understood the

other perfectly. The hour of separation was at hand, and they were

fortifying their courage.

"Funny old top," was Hawksley's comment as they stood before the train

gate. "Three months gone we were strangers."

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"And now--" began Cutty.

"With hoops of steel!" interrupted Kitty. "You must write, Cutty, and

Johnny and I will be prompt."

"You'll get one from the Azores."

"Train going west!"

"Good luck, children!" Cutty pressed Hawksley's hand and pecked at

Kitty's cheek. "Shan't go through with you to the car. Kuroki is

waiting. Good-bye!"

The redcaps seized the luggage, and Hawksley and his bride followed them

through the gate. Because he was tall Cutty could see them until they

reached the bumper. Funny old world, for a fact. Next time they met the

wounds would be healed--Hawksley's head and old Cutty's heart. Queer how

he felt his fifty-two. He began to recognize one of the truths that had

passed by: One did not sense age if one ran with the familiar pack.

But for an old-timer to jog along for a few weeks with youth! That was

it--the youth of these two had knocked his conceit into a cocked hat.

"Poor dear old Cutty!" said Kitty.

"Old thoroughbred!" said Hawksley.

And there you were, relegated to the bracket where the family kept the

kaleidoscope, the sea-shell, and the album. His children, though; from

now on he would have that interest in life. The blessed infant--Molly's

girl--taking a sunbonnet when she might have worn a tiara! And that boy,

stepping down from the pomp of palaces to the dusty ranges of Bar-K.

An American citizen. It was more than funny, this old top; it was stark

raving mad.

Well, he had one of the drums. It reposed in his wallet. Another queer

thing, he could not work up a bit of the old enthusiasm. It was only

a green stone. One of the finest examples of the emerald known, and he

could not conjure up the panorama of murder and loot behind it. Possibly

because he was no longer detached; the stone had entered his own life

and touched it with tragedy. For it was tragedy to be fifty-two and

to realize it. Thus whenever he took out the emerald he found his

imagination walled in. Besides, it was a kind of magic mirror; he saw

always his own tentative villainy. He was not quite the honest man he

had once been.




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