Aladdin turned over his pipe and pouch. “I’m afraid it’s a little bitter,” he said.
Again he started up the drive; but Peter ran after him.
“‘Laddin,” he cried, “wait—I forgot something.”
Aladdin came back to meet him.
“Aladdin,” said Peter, “I forgot something.” He held out his hand, and Aladdin squeezed it.
“Aladdin,” said Peter, “from the bottom of my heart I wish you luck.”
When they separated again there were tears in the eyes of both.
Just before the curtain of trees quite closed the view of the gate, Aladdin turned to look at Peter. Peter sat upon one of the big stones that marked the entrance, smoking and smoking. He had thrown aside his hat, and his hair shone in the sun. There was a kind of wistfulness in his poise, and his calm, pure eyes were lifted toward the open sky. A great hero-worship surged in Aladdin’s heart, and he thought that there was nothing that he would not do for such a friend. “He gave you your life once,” said a little voice in Aladdin’s heart; “give him his. He is worth a million of you; don’t stand in his way.”
Aladdin turned and went on, and the well-known house came into view, but he saw only the splendid, wistful man at the gate, waiting calmly, as a gentleman should, for life or death, and smoking smoking.
Even as he made his resolve, a lump of self-pity rose in Aladdin’s throat. That was the old Adam in him, the base clay out of which springs the fair flower of self-sacrifice.