Griffith and Lord James exchanged a quick glance, and the former hastened to reply: "Don't you believe it, Tommy. Don't talk about my guessing. You're steady as a rock, and you're going to keep steady. You're on the Zariba Dam now,—understand?"
"It's a go!" cried Blake, his eyes glowing. "That fixes me. You know my old rule: Not a drop of anything when I'm on a job. Only one thing more, and I'm ready to pitch in. I must get Mollie to put me up."
Griffith looked down, his teeth clenching on the pipe stem. There was a moment's pause. Then he replied in a tone more than ever dry and emotionless: "Guess my last letter didn't reach you. I lost her, a year ago—typhoid."
"God!" murmured Blake. He bent forward and gripped his friend's listless hand.
Griffith winced under the sympathetic clasp, turned his face away, coughed, and rasped out: "Work's the one thing in the world, Tommy. Always believed it. I've proved it this year. Work! Beats whiskey any day for making you forget … I've got rooms here. You'll bunk with me. Pretty fair restaurant down around the corner."
"It's a go," said Blake. He nodded to Lord James. "That lets you out,
Jimmy."
"Out in the cold," complained his lordship.
"What! With Mamma Gantry waiting to present you to the upper crust?—I mean, present the crust to you."
"Best part of the pie is under the crust."
"Now, now, none of that, Jimmy boy. You're not the sort to take in the town with a made-in-France thing like that young Ashton."