By instinct he caught it at
exactly the right balance for his strength and arm, and the handle, polished
by his grip, played with an oiled, frictionless movement against the
callouses of his palm. From the many hours of drilling, fingers crooked, he
could only straighten them by a painful effort. A bad hand for cards, he
decided gloomily, and still frowning over this he reached the door. There
he paused in instant repugnance, for the place was strange to him.
In thought and wish he was even now galloping Grey Molly over the grass
along the Asper, and he had to wrench himself into the mood of the patient
miner. There lay his blankets, rumpled, brown with dirt, and he shivered at
sight of them; the night had been cold. Before he fell asleep, he had flung
the magazine into the corner and now the wind rustled its torn, yellowed
pages in a whisper that spoke to Gregg of the ten-times repeated stories,
tales of adventure, drifts of tobacco smoke in gaming halls, the chant of
the croupier behind the wheel, deep voices of men, laughter of pretty
girls, tatoo of running horses, shouts which only redeye can inspire.
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