“See the axe?” he said. “We can’t turn everything into smoke and lies—though we try. Well—I’ve done it! You can go back and tell her I’ve done it!”
“You have only done half,” said Ormond, meeting his eyes straightly. “And you’ve got to do the other half now. That was what she asked, wasn’t it? And you gave your word. Has that gone? For if so you’ve lost everything, Randal.”
“No,” said Randal, “I remember.” He turned to the locker at the bunkfoot, and Ormond’s keen eyes grew graver. When a horse will not rouse to the whip the chances are that the girth-gall sore is sapping him.
From the locker bottom Randal brought out an old writing case worked in coloured silks by a mother or a sister whom he had never spoken of. It was burst at the sides and frayed from constant handling. Ormond knew that it held the core of Randal’s life, and, at that moment, he hated Effie Scannell.
“Shall I—go outside, Randal?”
“No! I don’t care—chuck some more fat into that slushlight.”
There was that in his face which made Ormond try again.
“Dump ’em all in together, man. There’s no sense in twisting the knife.”
But Randal did not hear. He stood by the slushlight, where a lump of meat swam in the
