All who had not been concerned in the business at Nixon's
shack expressed approval of his position, and hoped he would 'see it
through.'
But the impression of Nixon's words upon Slavin was as nothing compared
with that made by Geordie Crawford. It was not what he said so much
as the manner of awful solemnity he carried. Geordie was struggling
conscientiously to keep his promise to 'not be 'ard on the boys,' and
found considerable relief in remembering that he had agreed 'to leave
them tae the Almichty.' But the manner of leaving them was so solemnly
awful, that I could not wonder that Slavin's superstitious Irish nature
supplied him with supernatural terrors. It was the second day after the
funeral that Geordie and I were walking towards Slavin's. There was a
great shout of laughter as we drew near.
Geordie stopped short, and saying, 'We'll juist gang in a meenute,'
passed through the crowd and up to the bar.
'Michael Slavin,' began Geordie, and the men stared in dead, silence,
with their glasses in their hands.
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