"Good God!" whispered Cleland, rising and offering a hand that shook, "—Do you think I'm worth it, Oswald?"
Their hands met, clasped; a strange light flashed in Grismer's golden eyes.
"Do you mean it, Cleland?"
"With all my heart, old chap.... I don't know what to say to you—except that you're white all through—straighter than I am, Grismer—clean to the soul of you!"
Grismer drew a long, deep breath.
"Thanks," he said. "That's about all I want of life.... Tell Stephanie what you said to me—if you don't mind.... I don't care what others think ... if you and she think me straight."
"Oswald, I tell you you're straighter than I am—stronger. Your thoughts never wavered; you stood steady to punishment, not whimpering. I've had a curb-bit on myself, and I don't know now how long it might have taken me to get it between my teeth and smash things."
Grismer smiled:
"It would have taken two to smash the Cleland traditions. It couldn't have been done—between you and Stephanie.... Are you going back to Runner's Rest to-night?"
"Yes—if you say so," he replied in a low voice.