He wiped his forehead with a shaky hand.  The room was warm, the lamp flickering hotly in the summer breeze.  He thought of Joan and the ferry.  Did she scull the old, flat-bottomed punt back and forth, back and forth, when the winter wind was howling up the river?  What did she wear when winter settled, sharp and bleak, upon the ridge?  Kenny shivered.  He pictured her vividly in furs, warm and rosy, and hated the lynx-like eyes of the miser in the wheel-chair who doled out grudging pennies for nothing but his brandy.  There was much that he could say if he told the truth; much the old man must be told if later Joan with her secret tears was to be saved the brunt of his hellish torment.  He would force Adam Craig to stop the ferry.  He would force him to buy furs.  He would force him to endorse Mr. Abbott and his kindness, force him to grant Joan her books and the right to study, if she chose.  Why in Heaven’s name should she creep through rain and snow and shadows to the refuge in the pines?

He was dangerously excited with the fever of the old crusader in his veins.  And then he thought of the trust in Joan’s eyes when his tongue rambled, and went cold with shame.  He must learn to tell the truth.  He would practice for his own sake—­and for the sake of Joan.

With a sense of shock he realized that he had been very far away.  Adam was choking and wheezing and gasping himself into weakness.

“For God’s sake,” exclaimed Kenny with a feeling of guilt, “what’s the matter?  Are you laughing or choking?”

“I’m laughing,” said Adam, shaking with mirth.  “Kenny, I’m just laughing.”

“Well,” said Kenny huffily, “laugh your head off if you want to.  I mean what I say.”

The old man chuckled.

“I’d be disappointed,” he said, “if you didn’t.”

Kenny stared at him in intense disgust.  A perverse old lunatic!  He would like his new diversion less perhaps as time went on.

“I want you to forget,” Adam said abruptly, “about last night.  I was—­jealous.  I hate your health.  I—­hate your straight legs—­Oh, My God!” he whispered, shuddering, and closed his eyes.  When he opened them his smile was ghastly.

“Kenny,” he said with a pitiful air of bravado, “do you know a tune, an Irish tune called ’Eileen Aroon’?”

“Yes,” said Kenny, clearing his throat.  “Yes.”

“Whistle it.”

Kenny obeyed.  His eyes were sympathetic,

“Well,” said Adam in muffled tones, “it isn’t Irish.  It’s Robin Adair and it came from Scotland.”

But his voice was tired.

Kenny rummaged in the closet for his brandy.

“There are times,” said Adam queerly, “when you’ve an open-hearted, understanding way about you.  I believe you even know why I get drunk.”

“Yes,” said Kenny, “I think I do.”

Adam dropped hack limply in his chair.

“It’s because,” he whispered, “I’ve—­got—­to—­sleep!”