"Nor me for another," said Mr. Wriford and turned where he stood and pressed on across the shingle towards the next rocky arm.
Mr. Puddlebox sucked in his cheeks, felt at the hard lump in his pocket, then followed at a little run, and caught Mr. Wriford as Mr. Wriford climbed the further barrier of rocks.
"Hey, give us a hand, boy," cried Mr. Puddlebox cheerfully. "This is a steep one."
Mr. Wriford looked down. "What, are you coming on? I thought you'd stopped."
"You're unkind, boy," said Mr. Puddlebox.
Mr. Wriford, looking down, this time saw the blink that went with the words. He jumped back lower, coming with reckless bounds. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. Look here, coming across this bit"—he pointed back to their earlier stopping-place—"I felt—I felt rotten to think you'd gone."
"Why, that's my loony!" cried Mr. Puddlebox, highly pleased. "Come down here, boy. Let's talk of this business."
"But I wouldn't look back," said Mr. Wriford, "or come back. I've done with that sort of thing."
"Why, so you have," said Mr. Puddlebox, rightly guessing to what Mr. Wriford referred. "You can come down now, though, for I'm asking you to, so there's no weakness in that. There's shelter here."
"I don't want shelter," said Mr. Wriford, and went a step higher and stood with head and back erect where gale and rain caught him more full.