No word was
spoken--no word was needed. The daughter of Peter Martin and the
daughter of Adam Ward knew that the bond of their sisterhood was
sealed.
In that wretched home in the Flats, little Maggie Whaley smiled in her
sleep as she dreamed of her princess lady.
The armed guards at their stations around McIver's dark and silent
factory kept their watch.
The Mill, under the cloud of smoke, sang the deep-voiced song of its
industry as the night shift carried on.
In the room back of the pool hall, Jake Vodell whispered with two of
his disciples.
In the window of the Interpreter's hut on the cliff a lamp gleamed
starlike above the darkness below.
CHAPTER XXVI
AT THE CALL OF THE WHISTLE
Everywhere in Millsburgh the shooting of Captain Charlie was the one
topic of conversation. As the patrons of the cigar stand came and went
they talked with the philosopher of nothing else. The dry-goods
pessimist delivered his dark predictions to a group of his fellow
citizens and listened with grave shakes of his head to the counter
opinions of the real-estate agent. The grocer questioned the garage man
and the lawyer discussed the known details of the tragedy with the
postmaster, the hotel keeper and the politician.
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