Willard Bent met his ironic glance steadily. “We’re not here to trade,” he said with dignity.
“No—that’s right too—” Spink reddened slightly. “Well, all I meant was—look at here, Willard, we’re old friends, even if I did go wrong, as I suppose you’d call it. I was in this thing near on a year myself, and what always tormented me was this: What does it all amount to?”
“Amount to?”
“Yes. I mean, what’s the results? Supposing you was a fisherman. Well, if you fished a bit of river year after year, and never had a nibble, you’d do one of two things, wouldn’t you? Move away—or lie about it. See?”
Bent nodded without speaking. Spink set down his glass and busied himself with the lighting of his long slender pipe. “Say, this mint-julep feels like old times,” he remarked.
Bent continued to gaze frowningly into his untouched glass. At length he swallowed the sweet decoction at a gulp, and turned to his companion.
“I’d never lie....” he murmured.
“Well—”
“I’m—I’m still—waiting....”
“Waiting—?”