That much must be said for him. He plays his part in no small way,
and he is more a bigot and a fanatic loyalist than a rogue.
Suppose--but no, I will not suppose. I will lay my plans, I will
keep faith with people here who trust me, and who know that if I am
stern I am also just, and I will play according to the rules made by
better men than myself.
But what is this I see? Michael Clones--in his white jean waistcoat,
white neckcloth and trousers, and blue coat--is coming up the drive in
hot haste, bearing a letter. He rides too hard. He has never carried
himself easily in this climate. He treats it as if it was Ireland. He
will not protect himself, and, if penalty followed folly, should now be
in his grave. I like you, Michael. You are a boon, but--
CHAPTER XVII
STRANGERS ARRIVE
Dyck Calhoun's letter was never ended. It was only a relic of the years
spent in Jamaica, only a sign of his well-being, though it gave no real
picture of himself. He did not know how like a tyrant he had become in
some small ways, while in the large things he remained generous, urbane,
and resourceful.
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