He said:
"I had to take the other shoot--he hadn't the sand to help--I couldn't
tell him any more. . . . I wonder if she will go with me when I come
tonight--ready? I shall feel I deserve her anyhow. She don't treat me
as she did him, according to Sam's story. She makes me keep my
distance. She hasn't even shook hands with me since we was engaged.
I'll pay her for that after awhile." He walked up and down his room
breathing quick and hard. "I shall risk my neck, I know; but it won't
be the first time, and I never will have such a reason again. She beats
anything I ever saw. I've _got_ to have the money--to suit such a
woman. . . . I'm almost sorry for Sam--but the Lord made some men to be
other men's fools. . . ."
This was the staple of his musings; other things less edifying still
may be omitted.
While he was engaged in this manner he heard a timid knock at his door.
"Another visitor? I'm getting popular," he said, and went to open the
door.
A seedy, forlorn-looking man came in; he took off his shabby hat and
held it under his arm.
He said, "Good-evenin'," in a tone a little above a whisper.
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