Here Wessner had
succeeded in setting his teeth. When Freckles saw what it was he forgave
himself the kick in the pit of Wessner's stomach, and cursed fervently
and deep.
"Freckles, Freckles," said McLean's voice.
Freckles snatched down his sleeve and arose to his feet.
"Excuse me, sir," he said. "You'll surely be belavin' I thought meself
alone."
McLean pushed him carefully to the seat, and bending over him, opened a
pocket-case that he carried as regularly as his revolver and watch, for
cuts and bruises were of daily occurrence among the gang.
Taking the hurt arm, he turned back the sleeve and bathed and bound the
wounds. He examined Freckles' head and body and convinced himself that
there was no permanent injury, although the cruelty of the punishment
the boy had borne set the Boss shuddering. Then he closed the
case, shoved it into his pocket, and sat beside Freckles. All the
indescribable beauty of the place was strong around him, but he saw
only the bruised face of the suffering boy, who had hedged for the
information he wanted as a diplomat, argued as a judge, fought as a
sheik, and triumphed as a devil.
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