"Do you know what I'd do if I had any nerve?" he cried. "I'd step over … end it! … You could tell her I slipped. There wouldn't be any need to tell her about—yesterday. She would remember me as she knew me there in Mozambique. After a time she'd make Jimmy happy—and be happy herself. Trouble is, I'm what she suspected. I haven't the nerve, when it comes to the real showdown."
"Damnation!" swore Griffith. "Have you gone clean dotty? You're not the kind to quit, Tom!—to slide out from under because you haven't the grit to hang on!"
"That's it. I'm booked for the D. T. route," muttered Blake. "Wasn't born for a watery end. Whiskey for mine!"
"Rats! You're over the worst of this bump already. You're going back to-morrow and dig in to make good on the dam."
"The dam! What's it to me now?"
"Fifty thousand dollars, the credit for your bridge, and a place among the top-notchers."
"Much that amounts to—when I've lost her!" retorted Blake.
He turned about again and plodded heavily shoreward, his chin on his breast and his big shoulders bowed forward.