“Nature has certainly spoken to me,” said William Jordan.
“That doesn’t mean, Luney, old boy,” said Jimmy Dodson in a voice not the least like his own, “that you intend to desert an old friend?”
“To-morrow at dawn I obey her decree,” said William Jordan.
“You don’t mean to say you are going away!” cried Jimmy Dodson.
“Yes—for a little while.”
“But—but,” said Jimmy Dodson, “I don’t think I could bear it if you were never to come back. You see, Luney, old boy—well, you see—well, somehow, I can’t explain it—but—if—you—were—never—to—come—back!”
The voice of Jimmy Dodson was slow-drawn like a wail. It pierced William Jordan to the heart. Tears leaped to the eyes of the young man, but in the darkness his stricken companion could not see them.
“Luney,” said Jimmy Dodson, “will you promise that you will come back?”
“I promise,” said the young man.
“Honour bright, you know, honest Injun,” said Dodson anxiously.