"Which one of you feller' is de bes' man? Which one is go to church de mos'?"
Tom and Jerry exchanged glances. It was the latter who spoke:
"Tom—this gentleman-knows more about churches than I do. He was married in one."
Mr. Linton nodded. "But that was thirty years ago, so I ain't what you'd call a regular attendant. I used to carry my religion in my wife's name, when I had a wife."
"You can pray?"
Tom shook his head doubtfully. "I'd be sure to make a mess of it."
Doret sank to a seat; he lowered his head upon his hands. "Me, too," he confessed. "Every hour I mak' prayer in my heart, but—I can't spik him out."
"If I was a good talker I'd take a crack at it," Jerry ventured, "but—I'd have to be alone."
Doret's lips had begun to move; his companions knew that he was voicing a silent appeal, so they lowered their eyes. For some moments the only sound in the tent was the muttering of the delirious girl.
Linton spoke finally; his voice was low, it was husky with emotion: "I've been getting acquainted with myself to-night—first time in a long while. Things look different than they did. What's the good of fighting, what's the use of hurrying and trampling on each other when this is the end? Gold! It won't buy anything worth having. You're right, Doret; somebody to love and to care for, somebody that cares for you, that's all there is in the game. I had dreams, too, when I was a lot younger, but they didn't last. It's bad, for a man to quit dreaming; he gets mean and selfish and onnery. Take me—I ain't worth skinning. I had a kid—little girl—I used to tote her around in my arms. Funny how it makes you feel to tote a baby that belongs to you; seems like all you've got is wrapped up in it; you live two lives. My daughter didn't stay long. I just got started loving her when she went away. She was—awful nice."