Explore "The Riddle of Three-Way Creek" by Ridgwell Cullum on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Andy McFardell's drift was infinitely more rapid than appeared. The current of indolence was strong in him, and, to a nature such as his, it was irresistible. Since the day of the visit of Molly Marton to his homestead, and, later, the infinitely less welcome visit of Lightning, not another rod of seeding had been done, in spite of the week of perfect weather that had passed over his head.
The simple truth was that Andy McFardell belonged to a type to which discipline is an essential, to which it is sheer salvation. Robbed of the iron rule of the Mounted Police the man had quickly degenerated to the condition of a storm driven, rudderless, derelict. Inclination swayed him like the yielding grass on a wind-swept plain. The sturdy resistance of the forest tree was impossible to him. His moods impelled, and he drifted before them.