A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above
the hills, wavered against the serene, ashen evening. Howat Penny,
standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the
shifting, regular flight would not come close enough for a shot. He
dropped the butt of his gun to the ground. Then he raised it again,
examining the hammer; the flint was loose, unsatisfactory. There was a
probability that it would miss firing.
He had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day his
keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him. He turned his dark, young face toward the transparent,
green afterglow; the firm eyebrows drawn up at the temples, sombre eyes
set, too, at a slight angle, a straight nose, impatient mouth and
projecting chin. Below him, and to the left, a heavy, dark flame and
silvery smoke were rolling from the stack of Shadrach Furnace. Figures
were moving obscurely over the way that led from the coal house, set on
the hill, to the top and opening of the furnace; finishing, Howat Penny
knew, the charge of charcoal, limestone and iron ore.
Shadrach Furnace had been freshly set in blast; it was on that account
he was there, to represent, in a way, his father, who owned a half
interest in the Furnace.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25