His brown
eyes under the rough thatch of his eyebrow took in the room with
lightning glance, and he nodded respectfully, yet with great
friendliness, at John Grier. He seemed to have news, and he
glanced with doubt at Carnac.
John Grier understood. "Go ahead. What's happened?"
"Nothing that can't wait till I'm introduced to your son," rejoined
Tarboe.
With a friendly look, free from all furtiveness, Carnac reached out a
hand, small, graceful, firm. As Tarboe grasped it in his own big paw, he
was conscious of a strength in the grip which told him that the physical
capacity of the "painter-fellow," as he afterwards called Carnac, had
points worthy of respect. On the instant, there was admiration on the
part of each--admiration and dislike. Carnac liked the new-comer for
his healthy bearing, for the iron hardness of his head, and for the
intelligence of his dark eyes. He disliked him, however, for something
that made him critical of his father, something covert and devilishly
alert. Both John Grier and Tarboe were like two old backwoodsmen, eager
to reach their goal, and somewhat indifferent to the paths by which they
travelled to it.
Tarboe, on the other hand, admired the frank, pleasant face of the young
man, which carried still the irresponsibility of youth, but which
conveyed to the watchful eye a brave independence, a fervid, and perhaps
futile, challenge to all the world.
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