“I am not in love with the degradation of it; I think you must know that, Ned. All these years I’ve had a yearning for decency and clean living and respectability that I could not strangle, do what I would. So you will understand that I am not halting between two opinions. It is simply this: Can a man turn over a new leaf and bury such a past as mine without being beset by a constant fear of its resurrection? Won’t it come up and slap him in the face about the time he thinks he has it decently buried and covered up and out of sight?”
Hobart’s rejoinder was prompt and definitive. “No. The world is wide, and a few years of one man’s life are no more than so many texts written in the sand.”
“You’re wrong there, Ned. The world is fearfully small, and its memory of evil deeds is as long as its charity is short.”
“Let be, then. You are not a woman. You are a man, and you can fight it out and live it down.”
Brant acquiesced without more ado. “I was merely stating the case,” he said, as if the matter were quite extraneous to him. “You have earned the right to set the pace for me, Ned; and I’ll do whatever you say.”
“That is more like the George Brant I used to know. And this is what I say: I know a trail across Jack Mountain that will take us to the railroad in three hours. The night trains pass at Carbonado, and you will be in good time to catch whichever one of them you elect to take, east or west. There is no station on the other side of the mountain; but there is a side track for the Hoopoee mine, and you can build a fire to flag the train. Have you money?”
“Yes.”
“Enough?”
“Yes; enough to try whatever experiment you suggest.”
“I don’t know that I have anything to suggest more than your own good judgment would anticipate. Find your allotted corner of the big vineyard and go to work in it; that’s about all there is to it.”