“So you ‘ve been leaving a last message,” he said; “I ‘m afraid it’s not much good. Who ‘s likely to pass this way?”
“It’s only a chance, of course,” said Helm, “but—well—I ‘d like them, if possible, to know I ‘d thought of them.”
“And a woman, too,” laughed Anderson cynically, “if we get out of this you ‘ll learn, I expect, just about how little value she sets on your care for her.”
“You ‘ve been unlucky,” said the younger man gently; “there are women who—but there, I don’t suppose we’ll come through. Anyhow, it’s time we started.
“Well—well, keep your faith and I’ll keep mine. Perhaps here and there, there may be a woman worth caring about, but they ‘re few and far between.”
“Don’t you want to say anything?” asked Helm.
“Who? I? No. Who is there to care a straw whether I leave my carcase to the crows or not? There’s only the boy, and he’s too young to understand. But, I say, you might have mentioned the name of the station,” and taking the stick from Helm’s hand, he walked out on the salt and wrote;
LOST
“Please let them know at Yerlo,” and signed his name, “James Anderson.”
“There’s my last will and testament,” he said. “Come on now.”