"Strike me," he groaned huskily. "For God's sake strike me, for the coward I am!"
"I want your hand, Jim," I answered. "Tell me what is wrong? What is all this about?"
At last he looked into my eyes. I could see a hundred conflicting emotions working in his expressive face.
"You would be friends after what I have done?" he asked.
"I want your hand, Jim," I said again.
In a moment, both his were clasped over mine, in his vicelike grip.
"George,—George!" he cried. "We've always been friends,—chums. I have always known you were not like the rest of them."
He drew his forearm across his brow. "I am not myself, George. You'll forgive me for what I did, won't you?"
"Man, Jim,—there is nothing done that requires forgiving;—only, you have the devil's own grip. I don't suppose I shall be able to swallow decently for a week.
"But you are in trouble: what is it, Jim? Tell me; maybe I can help."