“Where you been?” asked George.
“Been! Half over Mexico, kicking greasers, hunting—giv’s a drink. Say—” to Tommie, “where did they find you?”
Tommie’s only answer was a little squirt of laughter.
“She’d never gone,” said Hank. Then he told the whole story.
Candon said nothing. Not one of them guessed the revolution that had suddenly taken place in his dead tired mind. Beyond the bald fact that he had made a fool of himself hunting for hours for something that was not there, stood the truth that fate had worked things so that whenever he moved towards a decent act he got a snub on the nose from somewhere. His attempt to return those jewels to their proper owners had brought the whole McGinnis crowd on top of him and had made him start on this mad expedition; his attempts to rescue Tommie from the white slavers had made him ridiculous, anyhow to himself; this wild search of the last few hours had made him ridiculous in the eyes of his companions.
One thing called up another till the hell broth in his mind, the feeling of “damn, everything” was almost complete. What completed it was Tommie’s spurt of laughter. That was fatal.
He said nothing but began eating his supper with the rest. Then Hank, suddenly remembering the jewels, broke out, “Say! I forgot, we’ve got a surprise for you. I’ll give you a hundred guesses and I’ll bet you won’t tell what it is.”
“It’s the boodle,” cut in George.
Then they told.
Candon showed neither pleasure nor surprise, he went on eating.