Scoville's stick spoke for him, the stick which I presently
tripped over and mechanically picked up, without a thought of the
desperate use to which I was destined to put it.
Etheridge was coming. I could hear his whistle on Factory Road.
There was no mistaking it. It was an unusually shrill one and had
always been a cause of irritation to me, but at this moment it was
more; it roused every antagonistic impulse within me. He whistling
like a galliard, after a parting which had dissatisfied me to such
an extent that I had come all this distance to ask his pardon and
see his old smile again! Afterwards, long afterwards, I was able
to give another interpretation to his show of apparent self-
satisfaction, but then I saw nothing but the contrast it offered
to my own tender regrets, and my blood began to boil and my temper
rise to such a point that recrimination took the place of apology
when in another moment we came together in the open space between
the end of the bridge and Dark Hollow.
He was in no better mood than myself to encounter insult, and what
had been a simple difference between us flamed into a quarrel
which reached its culmination when he mentioned Oliver's name with
a taunt, which the boy, for all his obstinate clinging to his
journalistic idea, did not deserve.
Knowing my own temper, I drew back into the Hollow.
He followed me.
I tried to speak.
He took the word out of my mouth. This may have been with the
intent of quelling my anger, but the tone was rasping, and noting
this and not his words, my hand tightened insensibly about the
stick which the devil (or John Scoville) had put in my hand.
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