We imagine ... but that
again is cynical. Harber will never be that now. Let me tell you why.
It's because he hadn't been aboard ship on his crossing to Victoria
twenty-four hours before he met Clay Barton.
Barton was rolled up in rugs, lying in a deck-chair, biting his
teeth hard together to keep them from chattering, though the
temperature was in the eighties, and most of the passengers in white.
Barton appeared to be a man of forty, whereas he turned out to be in
his early twenties. He was emaciated to an alarming degree and his
complexion was of the pale, yellow-green that spoke of many
recurrences of malaria. The signs were familiar to Harber.
He sat down beside Barton, and, as the other looked at him half a
dozen times tentatively, he presently spoke to him.
"You've had a bad time of it, haven't you?"
"Terrible," said Barton frankly. "They say I'm convalescent now. I
don't know. Look at me. What would you say?"
Harber shook his head.
Barton laughed bitterly. "Yes, I'm pretty bad," he agreed readily.
And then, as he talked that day and the two following, he told
Harber a good many things.
"I tell you, Harber," he said, "we'll do anything for money. Here I
am--and I knew damned well it was killing me, too.
Pages:
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245