“Yes.
“And you fished me out—all by yourself?”
“Yes.”
The stranger again examined him curiously. Then he suddenly stretched out his hand and grasped his companion's.
“All right; if you can't send, I reckon I can manage to walk over there tomorrow.”
“I was goin' on to say,” said Morse, simply, “that if you'll lie by tonight, I'll start over sunup, after puttin' out the cattle, and fetch you back a horse afore noon.”
“That's enough.” He, however, remained looking curiously at Morse. “Did you never hear,” he said, with a singular smile, “that it was about the meanest kind of luck that could happen to you to save a drowning man?”
“No,” said Morse, simply. “I reckon it orter be the meanest if you DIDN'T.”
“That depends upon the man you save,” said the stranger, with the same ambiguous smile, “and whether the SAVING him is only putting things off. Look here,” he added, with an abrupt return to his imperative style, “can't you give me some dry clothes?”
Morse brought him a pair of overalls and a “hickory shirt,” well worn, but smelling strongly of a recent wash with coarse soap. The stranger put them on while his companion busied himself in collecting a pile of sticks and dry leaves.