Harry glowered at the ash of his cigarette and then shrugged heavily.
"I see. They think you're me. That was nice of you, Jim," he sneered, "very decent indeed, very kind and brotherly——"
"You'd better 'can' the irony," Jim broke in briefly. "They'd have found us out—both of us. And I reckon you know what that would have meant."
"H—m. Maybe I do, maybe I don't," he said shrewdly. "It was you who found me—er—sick. Nobody else did."
"We needn't speak of that."
"We might as well. I'd have come around all right, if you hadn't butted in."
"Oh, would you?"
"Yes," said Harry sullenly.
Jim Horton carefully lighted a cigarette from the butt of the other, and then said coolly:
"We're not getting anywhere, Harry."