"You are a rum un," said Greenfield with a broken laugh. The words began to come shorter and with effort. "Excitement, Bub! Deviltry and cussedness!"
"How do you feel, Bucky?" asked Frawley.
"Half in hell already—stewing for my sins—but it's not that—it's—"
"What, Bucky?"
"That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield—to go down and out on account of a bug—a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn't have done it if the desert hadn't put me out of business first! No, by God! I'm not downed so easy as that!"
Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to the dying man:
"I say, Bucky."
"Shout away."
"Wouldn't you like to go out, standing, on your feet—with your boots on?"
Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh.