Michael heard them talking in Potch's hut—Charley yelling, threatening, and cursing. A fit of coughing seized him. Then there was silence—a hurrying to and fro in the hut. Michael heard Sophie go to the tank, and carry water into the house, and guessed that Charley's paroxysm and coughing had brought on the hemorrhage he had had two or three times since his return to the Ridge.
A little later Potch came to him.
"He's had a bleeding, Michael," Potch said; "a pretty bad one, and he's weak as a kitten. But just before it came on I told him I'd let him have a pound a week, somehow, if he goes down to Sydney at once.... But if ever he shows his face in the Ridge again ... or says a word more about you ... I've promised he'll never get another penny out of me.... He can die where and how he likes ... I'm through with him...."
Michael had been sitting beside his fire, staring into it. He had dropped into a chair and had not moved since Potch and Charley left the hut.
"Do you believe what he said, Potch?" he asked.
Michael felt Potch's eyes on his face; he raised his eyes to meet them. There was no lie in the clear depths of Potch's eyes.
"I've known for a long time," Potch said.
Michael's gaze held him—the swimming misery of it; then, as if overwhelmed by the knowledge of what Potch must be thinking of him, it fell. Michael rose from his chair before the fire and stood before Potch, his mind darkened as by shutting-off of the only light which had penetrated its gloom. He stood so for some time in utter abasement and desolation of spirit, believing that he had lost a thing which had come to be of inexpressible value to him, the love and homage Potch had given him while they had been mates.
"I've always known, too," Potch said, "it was for a good enough reason."
Michael's swift glance went to him, his soul irradiated by that unprotesting affirmation of Potch's faith.