S'pose we call it a sort of
slab-sided friendliness."
"We'll call it anything you like," assented Bob, with a happy laugh.
This time Willie laughed also.
"So she stood by you, did she?" queried he with quick understanding.
"Yes."
"'Twas like her."
"It was like both of you."
The old man raised a hand in protest against the gratitude the remark
implied.
"Delight ain't often wrong; she's a fair dealer." Then he added
significantly, "Them as ain't fair with her deserve no salvation."
"Hanging would be too good for the man who was not square with a girl
like that," came from Robert Morton with an emphasis unmistakable in
its sincerity.
CHAPTER X
A CONSPIRACY
On Sunday morning, when a menacing east wind whipped the billows into
foam and a breath of storm brooded in the air, the Galbraiths' great
touring car rolled up to Willie's cottage, and from it stepped not only
Robert Morton's old college chum, Roger Galbraith, but also his father,
a finely built, middle-aged man whose decisive manner and quick speech
characterized the leader and dictator.
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