The sounds of living are rarely loud, but
they run in an endless river--a monotone broken by ugly ripples of noise
to testify that men still sleep or waken, hunger or feed. Another ripple
had gone down to the sea of darkness, yet all the ripples behind it
chased on their way heedlessly and babbled neither louder nor softer.
There should have been some giant voice to peal over the sleeping
village and warn them of the coming vengeance--for Jerry Strann was
dead!
The tall, gaunt figure of Haw-Haw Langley came on tiptoe from behind,
beheld the dead face, and grinned; a nervous convulsion sent a long
ripple through his body, and his Adam's-apple rose and fell. Next he
stole sideways, inch by inch, so gradual was his cautious progress,
until he could catch a glimpse of Mac Strann's face. It was like the
open face of a child; there was in it no expression except wonder.
At length a hoarse voice issued from between the grinning lips of
Haw-Haw.
"Ain't you goin' to close the eyes, Mac?"
At this the great head of Mac Strann rolled back and he raised his
glance to Haw-Haw, who banished the grin from his mouth by a vicious
effort.
"Ain't he got to see his way?" asked Mac Strann, and lowered his glance
once more to the dead man. As for Haw-Haw Langley, he made a long,
gliding step back towards the door, and his beady eyes opened in terror;
yet a deadly fascination drew him back again beside the bed.
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