Producing tobacco and paper he rolled a cigarette, noting with a
satisfied smile the steadiness of his hand. Once he had overheard a
man telling another man that Calumet Marston had no nerves. He knew
that; had known it. He knew also that this faculty of control made his
passions more dangerous. But he reveled in his passions, the
possession of them filled him with an ironic satisfaction--they were
his heritage.
While he sat in the chair the blackness of the night enveloped him. He
heard no sound from the other part of the house and he finally decided
to find and confront his father. He stood erect, lit the cigarette and
threw the match from him, accidentally striking his hand against the
back of the chair on which he had been sitting. Yielding to a sudden,
vicious anger, he kicked the chair out of the way, so that it slid
along the rough floor a little distance and overturned with a crash.
Calumet cursed. He was minded to take the chair up and hurl it down
again, so vengeful was the temper he was in, but his second sober sense
urged upon him the futility of attacking inanimate things and he
contented himself with snarling at it. He stood silent for a moment, a
hope in his heart that his father, alarmed over the sudden commotion,
would come to investigate, and a wave of sardonic satisfaction swept
over him when he finally heard a faint sound--a footstep in the
distance.
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