"Anything you've done?" he demanded, squaring his arms on the table, and fixing his dark glance on Harding. "You needn't flatter yourself that I care a rap for what you do or don't do. Turn in, and leave me to myself."
"Come, come, Gray, don't take a fellow like that. You're tired out; I can see you're just tired out."
"I am tired out," responded Gray grimly. "Tired of it all. Tired and sick of you along with the rest of it. A pretty life this is to live. A pretty companion you make, don't you?"
"Well, well, things may better soon," said the other soothingly. "I wish I was more book-learned for your sake, old fellow. But that's past wishing for, ain't it? And you'll have to make the best of me for a spell."
"Best or worst, I can't endure this life any longer," returned Gray impatiently. "I'll ride over to the station to-morrow and give it up; or end it quicker than that perhaps;" and he glanced up with a dark look at the loaded gun lying across the shelf.
Harding knew Gray well enough to be able to disregard that look, but he spoke very seriously.
"You'll not be such a foolish lad as to throw up your berth in a fit of temper. This won't last much longer. You will be called in to the station in a week or two and given a better post; and it's your duty to stick on here till you're called in, you see."
"Duty!" Gray flung the word at him like a missile.
Harding's mild eyes looked at him in gentle reproof.
"It's a fine thing to do, my lad. No man can do more if he lived in a king's palace. And a man who does his duty is greater than a king."