“Yes.”
“And you hauled me out again?”
“Yes.”
Rainger smiled. “Good old boy!” he whispered. “You’d never go back on a chum, would you, Will? I’ll be all right in a little while. I guess I was stunned. Might have been dead but for you, eh?”
“I—wish you had been . . . .”
“Will!”
“I—wish I’d left you to lie there,—you vile thief!”
An appalled wonder settled on Rainger’s face. He raised himself to his elbow, still staring at Charron; got to his knees, then to his feet. They faced each other, those two ragged, battered men, at a yard’s distance. For long minutes neither moved, neither spoke. Then Charron stretched out a shaking hand to the little bag Rainger had covered with his own.
“Tell me where you got it!” he said, thickly.
“What? What? Are you mad, Will?”