Larry was now nervously twisting his fingers, and his face grew ashen.
“I’m listening, Rivers. Go on.”
Northrup had a feeling as if he were back among those scenes where time was always short, when things that must be said hurriedly gripped a listener. The conventions were swept aside.
“They––they couldn’t understand, anyway,” Larry broke in. “They’ve got a fixed idea of me; they wouldn’t know what it was that changed me, but you will.
“Everyone’s kind. I haven’t anything to complain of, but good God! Northrup, I’m dying, and what’s to be done––must be done quickly. You––see how it is?”
“Yes, Rivers, I see.” There could be no mercy in deceiving this desperate man.
“I knew you would. Day after day, lately, I’ve been saying that over in my mind. I remembered the night in the shack on the Point. I knew you would understand!”
“Perhaps your longing brought me, Rivers. Things like that happen, you know.”
Northrup, moved by pity, laid his hand on the shrunken ones near him. All feeling of antagonism was gone.
“It began the night I was shot,” Larry’s voice fell, 277 “and Mary-Clare will not let me talk of those times. She thinks the memory will keep me from getting well! Good Lord! Getting well! Me!