"Brenton, don't make an ass of yourself," he besought his friend. "You
have befuddled your brain with such big words as _truth_ and _proof_;
but don't go on your nerves about it. You are doing any amount of good,
from all accounts, here in the town. If you keep steady and sane,
you'll come to where you have an influence with a big, big I, and end
by really counting for something in the place you've chosen. If your
harness galls you, then pad it up. You can make it fit, if you spend a
little time on it. But, if you go restive and kick over the traces and
bolt, you'll do a lot of harm, not only to yourself, but to the people
who'll go plunging after you, without having brains enough to know just
why they do it. Yes, I know I am preaching; but what of it? I got the
habit, years ago," his smile was strangely gentle, strangely full of
such love as is rarely given by one man to another; "when old Mansfield
put you in my care. No; I know you weren't aware of it, but he did.
Anyhow, it has given me a sense of responsibility over you, and I hate
the notion of lying here on my back, and seeing you preparing to make a
mess of your whole life, at just this stage of the game."
"Thanks, Opdyke." Brenton shut his hand on the long, nervous fingers,
shut it and left it there. "But would it be a mess?"
"For the present, yes. Later, it's another question. You've put
yourself under fire, and you've gone panicky; I know the feeling. I had
it, first time I saw a premature blast go off and hurt a man, and I
nearly chucked the whole profession and went into a banking office.
Later, I steadied, found out that even an occasional killing," he
winced at his own words, even as he spoke them; "doesn't count for
much, beside the good done by the total output of a mine. Therefore I
kept on, studied the mine and shut my eyes to the victims. In the end,
I steadied, and so will you. However, Scott," and the long, nervous
fingers shut hard about the hand above them; "I am quite well aware
that the intermediate stage of funking the side issue is bound to give
us an occasional bad half-hour. Still, as you love your profession,
hang on to it by the last little corner, until you steady down."
"Yes." Brenton spoke slowly, while there flashed before him in swift
alignment all the details for which his profession stood: place and
popularity and influence, the best of human and social ties, the
fulfilled ambitions, the closest sort of contacts with his kind. All
these he saw, as rounded out to their fullest measure. Beside them was
himself, outwardly active, spiritually as stark and still as was the
broken body of his friend before him. In that instant, it was given to
Brenton to measure himself beside his possibilities, and the measure
was not wholly reassuring. "Yes," he repeated slowly; "but what is
going to be the final good gained by my hanging on, in case I never
steady down?"
Reed compressed his lips. Then, out of his own experience, he spoke.
"In that case, at least you'll have had the satisfaction of finding out
that, science and theology to the contrary notwithstanding, in the
final end it's solely up to you."