He looked out into the world that had once been his,
and all that he saw was that red brick chimney glowing in the sun, and
the chimney changed until at last it seemed to him like a tombstone
rising over the graves of the dead. He turned to the door of the
bungalow with a thickening in his throat and his eyes filmed by a mist
through which for a few moments it was difficult for him to see.
The bungalow was darkened by drawn curtains when he entered. One after
another he let them up, and the sun poured in. Brady had left his place
in order, and Keith felt about him an atmosphere of cheer that was a
mighty urge to his flagging spirits. Brady was a home man without a
wife. The Company's agent had called his place "The Shack" because it
was built entirely of logs, and a woman could not have made it more
comfortable. Keith stood in the big living-room. At one end was a
strong fireplace in which kindlings and birch were already laid,
waiting the touch of a match. Brady's reading table and his easy chair
were drawn up close; his lounging moccasins were on a footstool; pipes,
tobacco, books and magazines littered the table; and out of this
cheering disorder rose triumphantly the amber shoulder of a half-filled
bottle of Old Rye.
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