He had stuffed his handkerchief up his sleeve by this time, and now put his bloody tremulous hand into the outer breast-pocket of his coat. As the hand fumbled about the opening he said:
“I didn’t stop to look no more nor take no risks. I wanted to git away from thar and I tell you I lit out, and—”
He stopped, his jaw dropped, his nerveless figure stiffened, a look of animal terror came into his eyes.
“Where is it?” he almost yelled, staring at Essex.
“How the devil should I know! Where did you put it? Isn’t it there?”
Essex himself had suddenly paled. He stood erect before the crouched and trembling figure of his partner, his eyes fiercely intense.
“It ain’t here,” cried Harney, his hand clawing about in the pocket. “It ain’t there. Oh Lordy, Lordy! I’ve lost it! It’s gone. It fell out when I came off the tree. I fell. I told you I fell. Didn’t I tell you I fell?” he shouted, as if he had been contradicted.
He rose up, his face pasty white, wringing his hands like a woman. There was something grotesque and almost overdone in his terror, but his pallor and the fear in his eyes were real.
“Lost it!” cried Essex. “No more of those lies! Give me the paper, you dog.”
“Don’t you hear me say I ain’t got it? Ain’t I told you I fell? When I jumped for the tree I jest smashed it down into my pocket. I had to have both hands to climb. And I suppose I ain’t pressed it in tight enough. God, man, it was ten years in San Quentin for me if I’d lost two minutes.”