Garry sat and
swallowed, fighting for self-control. His eyes were numb, but Steve's
had taken fire, for he knew that the hour for which he had been waiting
had come at last.
"You've been trying to help me," Garry found his voice again, "you've
been trying to throw me a line. And, for a day or two, I tried to
catch it, Steve. But it isn't in me to try that hard, any more. Some
men do things for what there is in it--the pecuniary reward, I mean;
some men--you for instance--because their self respect won't let them
stop, win or lose. But now and then there happens one who keeps on
trying only because there is one other person, at least, who may be the
gladder for his success. I don't expect you to understand; I know it
will sound small and cowardly to you. . . . It's too lonesome living,
Steve, when there's no one who cares whether you live or not!"
"That does not fit your case," Steve objected instantly, "when your
danger or your safety keeps a woman watching, white-faced with terror
through the night, for your return."
Garry propped himself upon one elbow, the better to see the speaker's
countenance.
"My safety?" he repeated, blankly. "My return?" And then, wanly
grateful: "You are not the sort of man who lies convincingly, Steve."
And then Stephen O'Mara let him have it--all the story which had lain
so many days in his heart.
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