He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. Buried under various ancestral sixteenths, smothered under modern thought, liberty of action and bewildering variety of flesh-pots, it was still alive to the extent that it needed only his present state to resuscitate it in all its peculiar force. "Mac, you old son-of-a-gun!" "Got a man's breakfast?" McClintock demanded to know. I’ve more than twice your strength and at least ten times your cunning, when it’s needed. But always this new phase in life which civilization called convention threw up barrier after barrier. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears. So appalling was the sight, that even the murderers—familiar as they were with scenes of slaughter,—looked aghast at it.
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