“What I have said still holds good,” he retorted a little hotly.  “I will not influence the child.”

“I am sorry.  I wish to marry your girl.”

There was an impressive silence after this announcement.  “Poker” John stared in blank wonderment at his companion.  The expectation of such a contingency could not have been farther from his thought.  Lablache—­to many his niece—­it was preposterous—­ludicrous.  He would not take it seriously—­he could not.  It was a joke—­and not a nice one.

He laughed—­and in his laugh there was a ring of anger.

“Of course you are joking, Lablache,” he said at last.  “Why, man, you are old enough to be the girl’s father.”

“I was never more serious in my life.  And as for age,” with a shrug, “at least you will admit my intellect is unimpaired.  Her interests will be in safe keeping.”

Having recovered from his surprise the old man solemnly shook his head.  Some inner feeling made him shrink from thoughts of Lablache as a husband for his girl.  Besides, he had no intention of retreating from the stand he had taken.

“As far as I am concerned the matter is quite impossible.  If Jacky comes to me with a request for sanction of her marriage to you, she shall have it.  But I will express no wish upon the matter.  No, Lablache, I never thought you contemplated such a thing.  You must go to her.  I will not interfere.  Oh, dear! oh, dear!” and the old man laughed again nervously.

Lablache remained perfectly calm.  He had expected this result; although he had hoped that it might have been otherwise.  Now he felt that he had paved the way to methods much dearer to his heart.  This refusal of John’s he intended to turn to account.  He would force an acceptance from Jacky, and induce her uncle, by certain means, to give his consent.

The money-lender remained silent while he refilled his pipe.  “Poker” John seized the opportunity.

“Come, Lablache,” he said jocosely, “let us forget this little matter.  Have a drink of your own whisky—­I’ll join you—­and let us go down to the saloon for a gentle flutter.”

He helped himself to the spirit and poured out a glass for his companion.  They silently drank, and then Lablache coughed, spat and lit his pipe.  He fumbled his hat on to his head and moved to the door.

“Come on, then,” he said gutturally.  And John Allandale followed him out.

The two days before the half-breed pusky passed quickly enough for some of those who are interested, and dragged their weary lengths all too slowly for others.  At last, however, in due course the day dawned, and with it hopes and fears matured in the hearts of not a few of the denizens of Foss River and the surrounding neighborhood.