(Ah, the depth of the pathos they wore!)
“I have plenty like that sowed away in the camp,
And because you’re true grit to the core
You may have the durned thing for a ‘score’!”
Quick I dived for my purse, and I counted the coin,
Ere I greedily gathered my prize—
Then our hands were as hands of old friends, when they join
And our eyes met as brotherly eyes—
Oh, we wept, as we mingled good-byes!
“What’s it worth? What’s it worth?” to the banker I cried,