"I mean that I don't envy you," said Gaspar steadily. "I'd rather have
the other thing."
"What other thing, Jig?"
Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on the
lips of a stranger.
"You go into the world and take what you want. I'm stronger than that."
"How are you stronger?" asked Riley.
"Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me."
"Jig, I was never smart at riddles. Go ahead and clear yourself up with
a few more words."
The other hesitated--not for words, but as if he wondered if it might
be worth while for him to explain. Never in Riley Sinclair's life had
he been taken so lightly.
"Will you follow me into the house?" asked Gaspar at length.
"I'll follow you, right enough," said Sinclair. "That's my job. Lead
on."
He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smaller
room to the side.
Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room. Bookcases ranged along one
wall were packed with books. The couch before the window was heaped
with cushions. There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so that
one could either sit or lie in it. There was a lamp with a big
greenish-yellow shade.
"This is what I mean," murmured Jig.
Riley Sinclair's bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously. "Well, you got
this place fixed up pretty stuffy," he answered. "Outside of that, hang
me if I see what you mean."
Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whose
delicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at his
companion.
"I really shouldn't expect you to understand, my friend."
"Friend!" Sinclair exploded. "You're a queer bird, Jig. What do you
mean by 'friend'?"
"Why not?" asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his face
brightened into a smile. "I'd be swinging from the end of a rope if it
weren't for you, you know."
Sinclair shrugged away this rejoinder. He trod heavily to the
bookshelves, took up two or three random volumes, and tossed them
heedlessly back into place.
"Well, kid, you're going to be yanked out of this little imitation
world of yours pretty pronto."
"Ah, but perhaps not!"
"Eh?"
"Something may happen."
"What can happen?"
"Just something like you, my friend."
The insistence on that word irritated Riley Sinclair.
"Don't call me that," he replied in his most brutal manner. "Jig, d'you
know what a friend means?" he asked. "How d'you figure that word out?"
Jig considered. "A friend is somebody you know and like and are glad to
have around."
Contempt spread on the face of Sinclair. "That's just about what I knew
you'd say."
"Am I wrong?"
"Son, they ain't anything right about you, as far as I can make out.
Wrong? You're as wrong as a yearling in a blizzard. Wrong? I should
tell a man you're wrong! Lemme tell you what a friend is. He's the
bunkie that guards your back in a fight; he's the man that can ask for
your hoss or your gun or your life, no matter how bad you want 'em;
he's the gent that trusts you when the world calls you a liar; he's the
one that don't grin when you're in trouble, who gives a cheer when
you're going good. With a friend you let down the bars and turn your
mind loose like wild hosses. I take out my soul like a gun and show it
to my friend in the palm of my hand. It's sure full of holes and
stains, this life of mine, but my friend checks off the good agin' the
bad, and when you're through he says: 'Partner, now I like you better
because I know you better.'
"Son, I don't know what God means very well, and I ain't any bunkie of
the law, but I'm tolerable well acquainted with what the word 'friend'
means. When you use it, you want to look sharp."
"I really believe," Jig said, "that you would be a friend like that. I
think I understand."
"You don't, though. To a friend you give yourself away, and you get
yourself back bigger and stronger."
"I didn't know," said Jig softly, "that friendship could mean all that.
How many friends have you had?"