"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."
"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an' could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a boss tied 'n the stall, an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t' death."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a little silence.
"Silver," said I.
"Pure silver?"
"Undoubtedly," was my answer.
"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."
"More than a year's salary," said I.
He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.
"Ain' no great hand fer sech flummydiddles," said he, as he put the medal away.