“We’ll hate each other—as much as we like each other now. That, too, is written.”
Again Roberts laughed. A listener would have read self-confidence therein.
“If that’s the case, wouldn’t it be wiser for us to separate in advance and avoid the horrors of civil war? I’ll move out and leave you in peaceful possession of our cave if you wish.”
“No; I don’t want you to. I need you. That’s another compliment. You hold me down to earth. You’re a helpful influence, Darley, providing one knows you and takes you with allowance.”
The comment was whimsical, but beneath was a deeper, more tacit admission which both men 13 understood, that drowned the surface banter of the words.
“I think again, sometimes,” drifted on Armstrong, “that if the powers which are could only put us both in a pot as I put things together down in the laboratory, and melt us good and shake us up, so, until we were all mixed into one, it would make a better product than either of us as we are now.”
“Perhaps,” equivocally.
“But that’s the curse of it. The thing can’t be done. The Lord put us here, you you, and me me, and we’ve got to stick it out to the end.”
“And become enemies in the course of events.”
“Yes,” quickly, “but let’s not think about it. It’ll come soon enough; and meantime—” The sentence halted while with unconscious skill Armstrong rolled a cigarette—“and meantime,” he repeated as he scratched a match and waited for the sulphur to burn free, “I want to use you.” Again the sentence halted while he blew a cloud of smoke: “I had another offer to-day.”