"Tusk? How long?"
"'Bout nine feet." "We'll go and get it to-morrow."
No answer from the Boy.
"Early, hey?"
"Well—a—it's a good ways."
"What if it is?"
"Oh, I don't mind. I'd do more 'n that for you, Mac."
There was something unnatural in such devotion. Mac looked up. But the Boy was too tired to play the big fish any longer. "I wonder if you'll do something for me." He watched with a sinking heart Mac's sharp uprising from the worshipful attitude. It was not like any other mortal's gradual, many-jointed getting-up; it was more like the sudden springing out of the big blade of a clasp-knife.
"What's your game?"
"Oh, I ain't got any game," said the Boy desperately; "or, if I have, there's mighty little fun in it. However, I don't know as I want to walk ten hours again in this kind o' weather with an elephant on my back just for—for the poetry o' the thing." He laid his chapped hands on the side board of the bunk and pulled himself up on his legs.