“Best stop around, Bill,” he said. “You haven’t blundered. You’ve acted as—honesty demanded. If there’s trouble comes through it, it’s no blame to you. There’s no blame to you anyway. You’re honest. Maybe I’ve cursed you some, but it’s me who’s wrong—always. Do you get me? It don’t make any difference to my real feelings. You just stop around all you need, and don’t you act different from what you are doing.”
Bill stirred his bulk uneasily.
“But this trouble? Say, Charlie, boy,” he cried, his big face flushing painfully, “it don’t matter to me a curse what you are. You’re my brother. See? I wouldn’t do you a hurt intentionally. I’d—I’d chop my own fool head off first. Can’t anything be done? Can’t I do anything to fix things right?”
The other had turned away. A grave anxiety was written all over his youthful face.
“Maybe,” he said.
“How? Just tell me right now,” cried Bill eagerly.
“Why——” Charlie broke off. His pause was one of deep consideration.
“It don’t matter what it is, Charlie,” cried Bill, suddenly stirred to a big pitch of enthusiasm. “Just count me on your side, and—and if you need to have Fyles shot up, why—I’m your man.”
Charlie shook his head.
“Don’t worry that way,” he cried. “Just stop around. You needn’t ask a whole heap of questions. Just stop around, and maybe you can bear a hand—some day. I shan’t ask you to do any dirty work. But if there’s anything an honest man may do—why, I’ll ask you—sure.”