It was no longer a river village. Morrison was a
city now.
Once, when a squatly huge, red-headed, red-shirted riverman with a
week's red stubble upon his cheeks, lurched out of a doorway ahead of
them and stood snarling malevolently at O'Mara, the girl shrank against
her companion and clutched his arm. The red-shirted one fell to
singing after they had passed. A maudlin rendition of "Harrigan,
That's Me," followed them long after they had rounded a corner. Steve
looked down and smiled casually into Barbara's wide and startled eyes.
"That's a river-boss," he explained, "enjoying what he considers a
roaring good time. His name is Harrigan. He works on the Reserve
Company's cut, which we are to move in the spring, and whenever he has
had a trifle more than enough he always sings that song. He's willing
to fight, too, to prove that it was written especially for him!"
The girl continued to gaze up at him. His short laugh failed entirely
to clear her face of apprehension.
"He's not exactly a friend of yours, is he?" she said.
"Well, not exactly," Steve admitted. "Not when he is in that frame of
mind!"
"Nor in any other," the girl persisted, and she glanced down at her
hand, still lying upon the blue-flannel sleeve. "Did you know that
your arm grew as hard as iron for an instant? I never knew that
anyone's arm could grow as hard as that.
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