The Sunday Murder
They worked together by the candle-light. When they had done, the boy had a violent crying spell, but Whispering Smith got him to lie down beside him on a blanket spread on the floor, where Smith got his back against the sod wall and took the boy’s head in his arm. He waited patiently for the boy to go to sleep, but Dan was afraid the murderers would come back. Once he lifted his head in a confidence. “Did you know my daddy used to run an engine?”
“No, I did not; but in the morning you must tell me all about it.”
Whenever there was a noise in the next room the child roused. After some time a new voice was heard; Kennedy had come and was asking questions. “Wake up here, somebody! Where is Whispering Smith?”
Dancing answered: “He’s right there in the bedroom, Farrell, staying with the boy.”
There was some stirring. Kennedy talked a little and at length stretched himself on the floor. When all was still again, Dannie’s hand crept slowly from the breast of his companion up to his chin, and the little hand, feeling softly every feature, stole over the strange face.
“What is it, Dannie?”
“Are you Whispering Smith?”
“Yes, Dannie. Shut your eyes.”
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