LUCKY LUKE'S FRIEND
Tom returned through the woods in a kind of trance, pausing once to glance through the letter again and to scrutinize the signature. He found the patient up and about, with no reminder of his mishap save the cut on his forehead. He was plainly agitated and expectant as he looked through the woods and saw Tom coming. It was clear that he was in some suspense, but Tom, who would have noticed the smallest insect or most indistinct footprint in the path, did not observe this.
"H'lo, Slady," he said with a fine show of unconcern; "out for the early worm?" He did not fail to give a sidelong glance at Tom's pocket.
"Is your headache all gone?" Tom asked.
"Sneaked off just like you," he said; "I was wondering where you were. I see you were down for the mail. Anything doing?" he asked with ill-concealed curiosity.
"They're coming," Tom said.
"Who's coming?"
"Roy and the troop," Tom answered.
"Oh. Nothing important, huh?"
"I got some mail for camp; I'm going down to Uncle Jeb's cabin; I'll be right back," Tom said.
His friend looked at him curiously, anxiously, as Tom started down the hill.
"I won't make any breaks," Tom said simply, leaving his friend to make what he would of this remark. The other watched him for a moment and seemed satisfied.
Having delivered the mail without the smallest sign of discomposure, he tramped up the hill again in his customary plodding manner. His friend was sitting on the door sill of one of the new cabins, whittling a stick. He looked as if he might have been reflecting, as one is apt to do when whittling a stick.
"You got to tell me who you are?" Tom said, standing directly in front of him.
"You got a letter? I thought so," his friend said, quietly. "Sit down, Slady."
For just a moment Tom hesitated, then he sat down on the sill alongside his companion.
"All right, old man," said the other; "spring it—you're through with me for good?"
"You got to tell me who you are," Tom said doggedly; "first you got to tell me who you are."
For a few moments they sat there in silence, Tom's companion whittling the stick and pondering.
"I ain't mad, anyway," Tom finally said.
"You're not?" the other asked.
"It don't make any difference as long as you're my friend, and you helped me."
The other looked up at him in surprise, surveying Tom's stolid, almost expressionless face which was fixed upon the distant camp. "You're solid, fourteen karat gold, Slady," he finally said. "I'm bad enough, goodness knows; but to put it over on a fellow like you, just because you're easy, it's—it just makes me feel like—Oh, I don't know—like a sneak. I'm ashamed to look you in the face, Slady."
Still Tom said nothing, only looked off through the trees below, where specks of white could be seen here and there amid the foliage. "They're putting up the overflow tents," he said, irrelevantly; "there'll be a lot coming Saturday."
Then, again, there was silence for a few moments.
"I'm used to having things turn out different from the way I expected," Tom said, dully.
"Slady——" his friend began, but paused.
And for a few moments there was silence again, save for the distant sound of splashing down at the lake's edge, where scouts were swimming.
"Slady—— listen, Slady; as sure as I sit here ... Are you listening, Slady? As sure as I sit here, I'm going to tell you the truth—every gol darned last word of it."
"I never said you lied," Tom said, never looking at him.
"No? I tried not to tell many. But I've been living one; that's worse. I'm so contemptible I—it's putting anything over on you—that's what makes me feel such a contemptible, low down sneak. That's what's got me. I don't care so much about the other part. It's you—Slady——"
He put his hand on Tom's shoulder and looked at him with a kind of expectancy. And still Tom's gaze was fixed upon the camp below them.
"I don't mind having things go wrong," Tom said, with a kind of pathetic dullness that must have gone straight to the other's heart. "As long as I got a friend it doesn't make any difference what one—I mean who he is. Lots of times the wrong trail takes you to a better place."
"Do you know where it's taking you this time? It isn't a question of who I am. It's a question of what I am—Slady. Do you know what I am?"
"You're a friend of mine," Tom said.
His companion slowly drew his hand from Tom's shoulder, and gazed, perplexed and dumfounded, into that square, homely, unimpassioned face.
"I'm a thief, Slady," he said.
"I used to steal things," Tom said.