"Ay; an' from that day to this never a question atween us we couldn' settle by the toss of a coin." He continued to stare down gloomily. "Tossin' won't help us, not in this case," he added.
"It wouldn't be respectful."
"It wouldn't be fair, neither. . . . You may talk as you please, Cai, but the widow favours me."
"I asked ye for proofs just now, if you remember."
"So you did. And if you remember I asked you for the same, not two minutes afore. We can't give 'em, neither of us: and, if we could, why—as you said a moment since—'twouldn't be respectful. Let's play fair then, damn it!"
"Certainly," agreed Cai, striking a match and holding it to his pipe.
(But his hand shook.) "That's if you'll suggest how."
'Bias mused for a space. "Very well," said he at length; "then I'll suggest that we both sit down and write her a letter; post the letters together, and let the best man win."
"Couldn't be fairer," agreed Cai, after a moment's reflection.
"When I said the best man," 'Bias corrected himself, "I meant no more than to say the man she fancies. No reflection intended on you."
"Nor on yourself, maybe?" hinted Cai, with a last faint touch of exasperation. It faded, and—on an impulse of generosity following on a bright inspiration which had on the instant occurred to him— he suggested, "If you like, we'll show one another the letters before we post 'em?"