"I'm used to having things turn out different from the way I expected," Tom said, dully.
"Slady——" his friend began, but paused.
And for a few moments there was silence again, save for the distant sound of splashing down at the lake's edge, where scouts were swimming.
"Slady—— listen, Slady; as sure as I sit here ... Are you listening, Slady? As sure as I sit here, I'm going to tell you the truth—every gol darned last word of it."
"I never said you lied," Tom said, never looking at him.
"No? I tried not to tell many. But I've been living one; that's worse. I'm so contemptible I—it's putting anything over on you—that's what makes me feel such a contemptible, low down sneak. That's what's got me. I don't care so much about the other part. It's you—Slady——"
He put his hand on Tom's shoulder and looked at him with a kind of expectancy. And still Tom's gaze was fixed upon the camp below them.
"I don't mind having things go wrong," Tom said, with a kind of pathetic dullness that must have gone straight to the other's heart. "As long as I got a friend it doesn't make any difference what one—I mean who he is. Lots of times the wrong trail takes you to a better place."
"Do you know where it's taking you this time? It isn't a question of who I am. It's a question of what I am—Slady. Do you know what I am?"
"You're a friend of mine," Tom said.