Page:Further Chronicles of Avonlea (1920).djvu/194

164 Carewe above all. He hated Chester, too, as he hated strong, shapely creatures. His time had come at last to wound them both, and his exultation shone through his crooked body and pinched features like an illuminating lamp. Thyra perceived it and vaguely felt something antagonistic in it. She pointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a mat to a dog.

August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make her writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as some venomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot.

“Did you see anything of Chester on the road?” asked Thyra, giving August the very opening he desired. “He went to the harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about the loan of his boat, but it’s past the time he should be back. I can’t think what keeps the boy.”

“Just what keeps most men — leaving out creatures like me — at some time or other in their lives. A girl — a pretty girl, Thyra. It pleases me to look at her. Even a hunchback can use his eyes, eh? Oh, she’s a rare one!”’

“What is the man talking about?” said Thyra wonderingly.

“Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester’s down at Tom Blair’s now, talking to her — and looking more than his tongue says, too, of that you may be