“It is not easy to direct you,” said Varley, “but I will endeavor to do so. You appear to have had a long ride?”
“I have,” said Trafford, “and I am almost knocked up; but I must reach Three Star to-night.”
Varley drew a silver flask from his pocket and held it out.
“Will you have a drink?” he said.
Trafford took it gratefully.
“Don’t spare it,” said Varley; and he rolled up a cigarette and watched Trafford, who had seated himself upon the trunk of a felled tree, and was sipping the spirit as a tired man sips who is seeking a stimulant and tonic to enable him to undergo fresh exertion.
“Will you have a cigarette?” asked Varley in his slow and languid way.
“Thank you,” said Trafford, with a faint smile. “I think that will do me as much good as your excellent whisky.”
Varley handed him the pouch and paper, but Trafford’s hands were shaking, and Varley, saying, “Permit me,” took them from him and rolled a cigarette, offering his own for a light, and watched Trafford smoke, with that sense of satisfaction which we all feel when we are playing the part of the Good Samaritan.
“I am very grateful to you,” said Trafford, after a silence, broken only by the breathing of the two horses and the shrill cry of a bird fishing in the stream. “May I ask your name?”