Turn yer head this way, Quigg. Did
ye niver in yer whole life think there was somethin' worth the
havin' in bein' honest an' clean an' square, an' holdin' yer head
up like a man, instead of skulkin' round like a thief? What ye're
up to this mornin' I don't know yet, but I want to tell ye it 's
the wrong time o' day for ye to make calls, and the night's not
much better, unless ye're particularly invited."
Quigg smothered a curse and turned on his heel toward the village.
When he reached O'Leary's, Dempsey of the Executive Committee met
him at the door. He and McGaw had spent the whole morning in
devising plans to keep Tom out of the board-room.
Quigg's report was not reassuring. She would be paid her
insurance money, he said, and would certainly be at the meeting
that night.
The three adjourned to the room over the bar. McGaw began pacing
the floor, his long arms hooked behind his back. He had passed a
sleepless night, and every hour now added to his anxiety. His
face was a dull gray yellow, and his eyes were sunken. Now and
then he would tug at his collar nervously. As he walked he
clutched his fingers, burying the nails in the palms, the red hair
on his wrists bristling like spiders' legs. Dempsey sat at the
table watching him calmly out of the corner of his eye.
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