The impostor dressed nervously, yet slowly; he scarce comprehended
anything, except that he was not in immediate danger. When he had
finished, he stood looking at Tim, who was still seated on a log plunged
in meditation.
It seemed hours before Tim turned round, and now his face was quiet,
if set and determined. He walked slowly over, and stood looking at his
victim for some time without speaking. The other's eyes dropped, and
a greyness stole over his features. This steely calm was even more
frightening than the ferocity which had previously been in his captor's
face. At length the tense silence was broken.
"Wasn't the old game good enough? Was it played out? Why did you take
to this? Why did you do it, Scranton?"
The voice quavered a little in reply. "I don't know. Something sort of
pushed me into it."
"How did you come to start it?"
There was a long silence, then the husky reply came. "I got a sickener
last time--"
"Yes, I remember, at Waywing."
"I got into the desert, and had hard times--awful for a while. I hadn't
enough to eat, and I didn't know whether I'd die by hunger, or fever, or
Indians--or snakes.
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