They shook hands. "Got it bad, Lefty?"
The bound head shook. "Not so bad. I guess—I kind of feel that I won't be able to see much any more. Eyes all washed out. Got mustard gas in 'em. But I'll be all right, you know. A little thing like that's nothing. Glad to be alive. Still have my sex appeal, anyhow. Still got the old appetite. But—listen—what happened to you? Why in hell did you quit? Woodman nearly went crazy looking for you."
"Oh—" Hugo's thoughts went back a distance that seemed infinite, into another epoch and another world—"oh, I just couldn't stick it. Say, you guys, wait a minute." He turned. His camion-driver was lingering in the distance. "Wait here." He rushed back. The armless man whistled.
"God in heaven! Your friend there can sure cover the ground."
"Yeah," Lefty said absently. "He always could."
In a moment Hugo returned. "I got it all fixed up for you two to ride in. No limousine, but it'll carry you."
Lefty's lip trembled. "Gee—Jesus Christ—" he amended stubbornly; "that's decent. I don't feel so dusty to-day. Damn it, if I had any eyes, I guess I'd cry. Must be the cognac."
"Nothing at all, Lefty old kid. Here, I'll give you a hand." He took Lefty's arm over his shoulder, encircled him with his own, and carried him rapidly over the broken road.
"Still got the old fight," Lefty murmured as he felt himself rushed forward.
"Still."