"
"And as a true Celt, you held this to be a credit mark," laughed
Ashton-Kirk.
"I did. And, indeed, he seemed to consider it so himself, though he
was not one to care a snap what others thought of him. But often he'd
boast of the stock he came from. Fighters they were to the core, he
said, fighters who never knew when they were whipped, and who'd go on
fighting while they had a leg to stand on, an eye to see, and an arm
to strike a blow."
Tobin here paused and stroked his smooth-shaven chin, reflectively.
"He claimed descent from someone who was rated a real man in his day,"
he continued. "'Twas an officer, I think, who fought with--faith,
yes," smiling in recollection, "at the side of sorra the one less than
Washington himself."
Pendleton, listening with dwindling interest, saw Ashton-Kirk's hand
clench, and saw a gleam shoot into his eyes. Then he saw him bend
toward Tobin, his elbows on his knees, his clenched hands beneath his
chin.
"Ah," said the investigator, and his voice was calmer than Pendleton
remembered ever hearing it before, "he claimed a pedigree, did he? And
from a Revolutionary officer. Such things are always interesting. It's
a pity you can't remember the soldier's name."
Tobin pondered.
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