"There, by God," he stated in his high, complaining tenor, "there, by
God! And if I ain't created a vacancy in the angel chorus aloft, then
I'm a liar!"
And his explosive diagnosis proved to be as correct as it was utterly
unprofane in spirit. Before day broke there came an hour when Garry
Devereau lifted himself upon one elbow and opened his eyes to stare
half wildly, but very sanely, about the room. His gaze flitted
wonderingly from wall to wall before it rested, fearfully fixed, upon
Steve's brown face. Instantly he looked away, flinchingly, and met Fat
Joe's voluminous grin--and looked back again, cunningly cautious.
Finally he reached out a timid, blue-veined, pitifully unsteady hand
and plucked at Steve's blue flannel sleeve. And his words were an echo
of those which Stephen O'Mara had heard before that night from other
lips.
"Then you--are you," he framed the words laboriously. "I wasn't
sure--even when I knew it must be."
And Garry Devereau tried to smile--his slow smile of sophistry.
"Greetings, Sir Galahad!" he faltered. "And how are you, Steve--and
who might your--fat friend be?"
CHAPTER IX
A MATTER OF ORNITHOLOGY
Of all the fragmentary pictures which those crowded twelve hours left
registered upon Stephen O'Mara's brain, none proved more enduring than
did the change which Garry Devereau's first haltingly weak but very sane
greeting wrought in the expression on Fat Joe's pink visage that morning.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155