More than an hour had passed since the overeager Harry had shot out of sight, when the silent Jonesy spoke for the first time. “Eh… kid?”
“What do you want?”
“I'd like to talk to you, if I may.”
“You're doing it.”
“You didn't fool me, young man. Poor Harry — yes, but not me.”
“Poor Harry is a damned fool,” Gary retorted. He lay outstretched on his belly, chin buried in the dirt and the treasured shotgun cradled in his arms. Gary's senses were alert, his eyes and ears directed toward the distant river “So?”
“I have watched you, of course, since we came upon you. Army, weren't you — or perhaps the Marines? You could have jumped Harry a dozen times today — there were plenty of opportunities. And you could have taken the gun away from me any time you wished. But you didn't, you deliberately held off. Why?”
“I wanted Harry — or somebody — to tackle the river,” the corporal answered.
“I realize that. I realized what you were trying to do when you introduced the marine gear and yet passed up an opportunity to seize the gun. But why? Why didn't you swim across and let us go hang?”
Gary grinned and the macabre humor of it was reflected in his voice. “I'm no test pilot, Jonesy. I think up the ideas and let somebody else try them out. If Harry makes it, I can — later on and at another bridge.”