"I wonder how it's all going to end," said Alf. "If we could only rip apart that black thing down the road and look into the future."
"And if you could rip it," I replied, "if you could and were about to do so, I would grab your hand with a harder grip than I gave the gun when I caught the hammers."
"Then you don't want to know? You'd rather continue to writhe on the gridiron than to turn over and fall into the fire and end the matter?"
"Alf," said I, "does it strike you that we are a couple of as big fools as ever drove along a county road?"
"Whoa!" he shouted, pulling upon the reins and stopping the horse. And then he laughed. "Fools; why, two idiots are two Solomons compared with us. Let's stop it; let's be sensible; let's be men."
"I'm with you, Alf. Shake hands."
We drove along in silence. After a long time he said: "Here's where she crossed the road; and do you see that?" he asked, pointing to the Milky Way. "That was done by the waving of her hand. I wish to the Lord I knew just how much she thinks of Dan Stuart."
"Ah, but that wouldn't relieve you," I replied, "for I know how much Guinea thinks of Chyd Lundsford and feel all the worse for it. There are always two hopes, walking with a doubt, one on each side, but a certainty walks alone."
"I reckon you are right," he rejoined with a sigh. "How many strange things love will make a man say, things that an unpoisoned man would never think of. Poisoned is the word, Bill; and I'll bet that if I'd bite a man it would kill him in a minute."
"What sort of a fellow is young Lundsford?" I asked, with my teeth set and my feet braced against the dashboard.