“Then,” said Scannell slowly, “I ask you—what is my daughter to you?”
All the blood in Randal’s body was leaping in his throat. That was surely why his head felt so very cold, and why his hand was numb and dead on the unseen thing that he was gripping. Somewhere Art Scannell was laughing; and, without doubt, it was the laugh of a demon sent straight from the Pit.
“You’ve taken him on the hop, pater, and he hasn’t got his lies ready. Let me wake him up. See here, you Randal; half the station’s betting it’s Kiliat, and the other half’s betting it’s you. The odds are on Kiliat down on the township, and I’m sweet on him myself. But if Effie’s sweet on you———”
Scannell’s voice broke the laugh, and Randal raised his head to meet it.
“Will you answer me? What is my daughter—my daughter—to you?”
It did not need the emphasis that cut like a whip-lash over the face.
“She is more to me than I will tell you,” said Randal, deliberately. “And I am to her—just as any other station-hand might be.”
“That’s a lie, anyway,” cried Art, beating his pipe-bowl on his knee. “Effie is a little fool, and she’s all school-girly sentiment yet. And you’ve taken advantage of it. Look at him, pater. Ask him if he ever kissed her!”
“Arthur———” Then Scannell’s eye caught
