He decided that he would do what he
could to keep the stranger with them, and though Randall Byrne lived to
be a hundred he would never do a finer thing than what he attempted
then. He stepped across the room and stood before Barry, blocking the
way.
"Sir," he said gravely, "if you go now, you will work a great sorrow in
this house."
A glint of anger rose in the eyes of Barry.
"Joe Cumberland is sleepin' soun'," he answered. "He'll be a pile rested
when he wakes up. He don't need me no more."
"He's not the only one who needs you," said Byrne. "His daughter has
been waiting impatiently for your coming, sir."
The sharp glance of Barry wavered away.
"I'd kind of like to stay," he murmured, "but I got to go."
A dull voice called from the next room.
"It's Joe Cumberland," said Byrne. "You see, he is not sleeping!"
The brow of Barry clouded, and he turned gloomily back.
"Maybe I better stay," he agreed.
Yet before he made a step Byrne heard a far-away honking of the wild
geese, that musical discord carrying for uncounted miles through the
windy air. The sound worked like magic on Barry. He whirled back.
"I got to go," he repeated.
And yet Byrne blocked the way. It required more courage to do that than
to do anything he had ever attempted in his life. The sweat poured out
from under his armpits as the stranger stepped near; the blood rushed
from his face as he stared into the eyes of Barry--eyes which now held
an uncanny glimmer of yellow light.
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