Albert went. He fumbled in the cupboard under the stairs, found the jug—a large one and heavy—and hastened out into the night with it in his hands. Behind the shoe store, amid a heap of old packing boxes and other rubbish, he emptied it. The process was rather lengthy and decidedly fragrant. As a finish he smashed the jug with a stone. Then he climbed the stairs again.
Laban was waiting for him, drops of perspiration upon his forehead.
“Was—was it there?” he demanded.
Albert nodded.
“Yes, yes. 'Twas there, eh? And did you—did you—?”
“Yes, I did, jug and all.”
“Thank you, Al . . . thank you . . . I—I've been trying to muster up spunk enough to do it myself, but—but I swan I couldn't. I didn't dast to go nigh it . . . I'm a fine specimen, ain't I, now?” he added, with a twisted smile. “Some coward, eh? Yes, yes. Some coward.”
Albert, realizing a little of the fight the man was making, was affected by it. “You're a brick, Labe,” he declared, heartily. “And as for being a coward—Well, if I am half as brave when my turn comes I shall be satisfied.”
Laban shook his head. “I don't know how scared I'd be of a German bombshell,” he said, “but I'm everlastin' sure I wouldn't run from it for fear of runnin' towards it, and that's how I felt about that jug. . . . Yes, yes, yes. I did so . . . I'm much obliged to you, Al. I shan't forget it—no, no. I cal'late you can trot along home now, if you want to. I'm pretty safe—for to-night, anyhow. Guess likely the new recruit won't desert afore morning.”
But Albert, watching him intently, refused to go.