“Same goes for you, Marston,” I informed him. “You saved my life, and
you proved yourself a ---- good man. I admire you. But my personal
opinion of you still goes. We’ll get along. I’ll give orders and you’ll
take ’em, and this is the last occasion for conversation on anything
except business that we’ll have.”
“Yes, sir. Now about Number 14, I think she’s ready for test.”
And that was that.
Not only that, but it’s about every bit of it, I guess. You probably
thought I was going to make myself out a hero. Now you see how dumb I
was. All wrong. Funny how I keep muddling through, getting dumber and
dumber, seems like, every year. I’d like to report that Marston and I
fell into each other’s arms, and that he became my stanch friend and my
man Friday and all that, but even in that this yarn is completely
cockeyed, and isn’t like it ought to be at all.
But that’s the way things work out in real life, I guess. Marston and I
respect each other, and it’s nothing to his discredit that he doesn’t
like me. He can find several people who would say that disliking me was
only another proof of his remarkable powers.
Occasionally, when the wind is in the east, I am a pessimist, and at
those times--whisper it--I’m inclined to agree with those last-named
folks.
And that _is_ all of it.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the May 20, 1925 issue
of Adventure magazine.]