“It was angelic pity, Bromley. Surely that needn’t hurt your pride.”
“Angels,” was the half-musing reply. “They can rise so much, so infinitely much, higher than a man when they hold on, and sink so much lower when they let go. This angel you speak of—is she yours, Trask?”
“No; only an acquaintance. I have met her only twice. But you haven’t said what you think of my proposal. It is made in good faith.”
“Don’t you see how impossible it is?”
“Why is it impossible?”
“A partnership presupposes mutual contributions. I have nothing to contribute; not even skill with a miner’s pick.”
“You have yourself and your two hands—which are probably not more unskilled than mine, for the kind of work we’d have to do.”
“But the outfit—the grub-stake?”
“I have money enough to carry the two of us through the summer. If we strike something, you can pay me back out of your half of the stake.”
For quite a long time Bromley sat with his head thrown back, and with the half-burned cigar, which had gone out and was cold and dead, clamped between his teeth. And his answer, when he made it, was strictly in character.