From the steps at its river-door, a
little ferry-boat took people to the other side of the Watloon, and very
near--just a few hand-breadths away--was the annex where was the man who
had jostled Jean Jacques.
CHAPTER XXIII
JEAN JACQUES HAS WORK TO DO
A single lighted lamp, turned low, was suspended from the ceiling of the
raftered room, and through the open doorway which gave on to a little
wooden piazza with a slight railing and small, shaky gate came the swish
of the Watloon River. No moon was visible, but the stars were radiant and
alive--trembling with life. There was something soothing, something
endlessly soothing in the sound of the river. It suggested the ceaseless
movement of life to the final fulness thereof.
So still was the room that it might have seemed to be without life, were
it not for a faint sound of breathing. The bed, however, was empty, and
no chair was occupied; but on a settle in a corner beside an unused
fireplace sat a man, now with hands clasped between his knees, again with
arms folded across his breast; but with his head always in a listening
attitude. The whole figure suggested suspense, vigilance and
preparedness. The man had taken off his boots and stockings, and his bare
feet seemed to grip the floor; also the sleeves of his jacket were rolled
up a little. It was not a figure you would wish to see in your room at
midnight unasked.
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