“Ah, well,” said Yates with a sigh, “there’s no doing anything with you or for you. I’ve tried my best; that is one consolation. Don’t go away. I’ll let fate decide. Here goes for a toss-up.”
And Yates drew a silver half dollar from his pocket. “Heads for Margaret!” he cried. Renmark clinched his fist, took a step forward, then checked himself, remembering that this was his last night with the man who had at least once been his friend.
Yates merrily spun the coin in the air, caught it in one hand, and slapped the other over it.
“Now for the turning point in the lives of two innocent beings.” He raised the covering hand, and peered at the coin in the gathering gloom. “Heads it is. Margaret Howard becomes Mrs. Richard Yates. Congratulate me, professor.”
Renmark stood motionless as a statue, an object lesson in self-control. Yates set his hat more jauntily on his head, and slipped the epoch-making coin into his trousers pocket.
“Good-by, old man,” he said. “I’ll see you later, and tell you all the particulars.”
Without waiting for the answer, for which he probably knew there would have been little use in delaying, Yates walked to the fence and sprang over it, with one hand on the top rail. Renmark stood still for some minutes, then, quietly gathering underbrush and sticks large and small, lighted a fire, and sat down on a log, with his head in his hands.