But, Pierre, aff another man's bat like that--aw,
Mowley, fill your mouth wid the bowl o' yer pipe."
Pierre now looked up at the three men, rolling another cigarette as he
did so; but he seemed to be thinking of a distant matter. Meeting the
three pairs of eyes fixed on him, his own held them for a moment
musingly; then he lit his cigarette, and, half reclining on the bench
where he sat, he began to speak, talking into the fire as it were.
"I was at Guidon Hill, at the Company's post there. It was the fall of
the year, when you feel that there is nothing so good as life, and the
air drinks like wine. You think that sounds like a woman or a priest?
Mais, no. The seasons are strange. In the spring I am lazy and sad; in
the fall I am gay, I am for the big things to do. This matter was in the
fall. I felt that I must move. Yet, what to do? There was the thing.
Cards, of course. But that's only for times, not for all seasons.
So I was like a wild dog on a chain. I had a good horse--Tophet, black
as a coal, all raw bones and joint, and a reach like a moose. His legs
worked like piston-rods. But, as I said, I did not know where to go or
what to do. So we used to sit at the Post loafing: in the daytime
watching the empty plains all panting for travellers, like a young
bride waiting her husband for the first time."
Macavoy regarded Pierre with delight. He had an unctuous spirit,
and his heart was soft for women--so soft that he never had had one on
his conscience, though he had brushed gay smiles off the lips of many.
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