wolves in the skins of men. They're the right sons of their mother.
When I go out they'll grab the coin I've saved up, and leave me to lie
here and rot, maybe.

"Lad, it's a fearful thing to die without having no one around that
cares, and to know that even after I've gone out I'm going to lie here
and have my dead eyes looking up at the ceiling. So I'm writing to
you, Pierre, part to tell you what you ought to know; part because I
got a sort of crazy idea that maybe you could get down here to me
before I go out.

"You don't owe me nothing but hard words, Pierre; but if you don't try
to come to me, the ghost of your mother will follow you all your life,
lad, and you'll be seeing her blue eyes and the red-gold of her hair
in the dark of the night as I see it now. Me, I'm a hard man, but it
breaks my heart, that ghost of Irene. So here I'll lie, waiting for
you, Pierre, and lingering out the days with whisky, and fighting the
wolf eyes of them there sons of mine. If I weaken--If they find they
can look me square in the eye--they'll finish me quick and make off
with the coin. Pierre, come quick.

"MARTIN RYDER."

The hand of Pierre dropped slowly to his side, and the letter
fluttered with a crisp rustling to the floor.




CHAPTER 3