It was hard to tell what
were the principles controlling Tarboe--there was always an element of
suspicion in his brown and brilliant eyes. Yet he loved work. The wind of
energy seemed to blow through his careless hair. His hands were like iron
and steel; his lips were quick and friendly, or ruthless, as seemed
needed. To John Grier's eyes he was the epitome of civilization--the
warrior without a soul.
When Carnac came in now with the statue tucked under his arm, smiling and
self-contained, it seemed as though something had been done by Fate to
flaunt John Grier.
With a nod, Carnac put the statue on the table in front of the old man,
and said: "It's all right, isn't it? I've lifted that out of the
river-life. That's one of the best men you ever had, and he's only one of
a thousand. He doesn't belong anywhere. He's a rover, an adventurer, a
wanton of the waters. Look at him. He's all right, isn't he?" He asked
this again.
The timber-man waved the statue aside, and looked at the youth with
critical eyes. "I've just been making up the accounts for the year," he
said. "It's been the best year I've had in seven. I've taken the starch
out of Belloc and Fabian. I've broken the back of their opposition--I've
got it like a twig in iron teeth.
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