"He'd no—iron guts," he said, with a sigh. "He had no stomach for battle in face of this—this disaster that hit him."
"It has no relation to his—undertaking?"
"None whatever. I know the whole thing. We were 'intimates.' I know his whole life story. It was a disaster to shake any man."
The missionary sighed profoundly.
"Yes, I knew him intimately," he went on. "I deplored his weakness. I censured it. Perhaps I went far beyond any right of mine to condemn. I don't know. I argued with him. I did all I could to support him. You see, I appreciated the splendid notion of the thing he contemplated. More than that, I knew it could be carried out."
He shook his head.
"It was useless. This taint—this yellow streak—was part of the man. He could no more help it than you could help fighting to the death."
"Queer."
A sort of pitying contempt shone in the younger man's eyes.
"Queer?" Father Adam nodded. "It was—crazy."