They descended into the valley, where the road was carried across a clear stream upon an old stone bridge.
“Half a moment,” said Taswell. “I’m thirsty.”
Wilfred and Stanny waited by the parapet.
“Look here,” said Stanny, jerkily. He refused to meet Wilfred’s eye. “Didn’t have a chance to tell you before. I’ve been on the loose again. Suppose you can see it. Three days. Blind. . . . Oh, you needn’t say anything!”
“Not going to,” said Wilfred.
“This fellow . . .” Stanny went on. “When I came to my senses last night I found myself in a dive up near the Harlem river. He was there, too. In the same boat, you understand. Has had a knockout blow. I don’t know what. Won’t talk about it. I haven’t had any knockout blow. The same thing as usual. Nothingness. . . . My money had given out, and so had his. We were put out of the place together. So we walked all the way down to my place, and I took him in. By that time we were ready to shoot ourselves. I found your letter there, so this morning I borrowed enough from the lunch-room down-stairs to pay our fares up. We haven’t a cent.”
“I have enough,” said Wilfred swiftly. “We can stop at night in farmhouses. I’m damn glad you brought him.” He looked over the parapet. “What a splendid young creature, eh, Stanny?”
“I suppose so,” said Stanny, dismally refusing to look. “I hadn’t thought of it. Hadn’t thought of anything at all.”
“One could make a friend of him,” said Wilfred.
“Oh, you could!” said Stanny, sneering.