“The difficulty,” said Witham, “is that an understanding is useless when made with a man who never keeps his word.”
“Well,” said Courthorne dryly, “we shall gain nothing by paying each other compliments, and whether you believe it or otherwise, it was not by intention I turned up at the Grange. I was coming here from a place west of the settlement and you can see that I have been ill if you look at me. I counted too much on my strength, couldn’t find a homestead where I could get anything to eat, and the rest may be accounted for by the execrable brandy I had with me. Anyway, the horse threw me and made off, and after lying under some willows a good deal of the day, I dragged myself along until I saw a house.”
“That,” said Witham, “is beside the question. What do you want of me? Dollars, in all probability. Well, you will not get them.”
“I’m afraid I’m scarcely fit for a discussion now,” said Courthorne. “The fact is, it hurts me to talk, and there’s an aggressiveness about you which isn’t pleasant to a badly-shaken man. Wait until this evening, but there is no necessity for you to ride to the outpost before you have heard me.”
“I’m not sure it would be advisable to leave you here,” said Witham dryly.
Courthorne smiled ironically. “Use your eyes. Would any one expect me to get up and indulge in a fresh folly? Leave me a little brandy—I need it—and go about your work. You’ll certainly find me here when you want me.”
Witham, glancing at the man’s face, considered this very probable, and went out. He found his cook, who could be trusted, and said to him, “The man yonder is tolerably sick, and you’ll let him have a little brandy, and something to eat when he asks for it. Still, you’ll bring the decanter away with you, and lock him in whenever you go out.”
The man nodded, and making a hasty breakfast, Witham, who had business at several outlying farms, mounted and rode away. It was evening before he returned, and found Courthorne lying in a big chair with a cigar in his hand, languidly debonair but apparently ill. His face was curiously pallid, and his eyes dimmer than they had been, but there was a sardonic twinkle in them.
“You take a look at the decanter,” said the man, who went up with Witham, carrying a lamp. “He’s been wanting brandy all the time, but it doesn’t seem to have muddled him.”
Witham dismissed the man and sat down in front of Courthorne.