The onlooker noted with a sort of wonder how
sumptuous were the fringes of their curtains, long and purple--black, like
the thick, arched brows above. To speak truly, Kerry, although he was a
respectable member of the police force, had the artistic temperament. The
harmony of outline, the justness of proportion in both the face and figure
of the man before him, filled the Irishman with delight; and the splendid
virile bulk of the mountain-man appealed irresistibly to the other's
masculinity. The little threads of silver in the tempestuous black curls
seemed to Kerry but to set off their beauty.
"Gosh! but you're a good-looker!" he muttered. And putting his estimate of
the man's charm into such form as was possible to him, he added, under his
breath, "I'd hate to have seen a feller as you tryin' to court my Katy."
This was the first of many strange days; golden September days they were,
cool and full of the ripened beauty of the departing summer. Kerry's host
taught him to snare woodcock and pheasants--shoot them the Irishman could
not, since the excitement of the thing made him fire wild.
"Now ain't that the very divil!" he would cry, after he had let his third
bird get away unharmed.
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