Bat swung around. His grey eyes were wide. His face seemed to have
softened out of its usual harsh cast.

"But I do, Les," he cried. "You don't need to figger a thing about me.
You're hurt, boy. You're hurt mighty sore. Cut me right out of your
figgers, and do the things that's goin' to heal that sore. If there's a
thing I can do to help you, why, I guess I'd be glad to know it."

For a few moments Standing remained silent. Perhaps he was pondering
upon what he had to say. Perhaps he was simply gaining time to suppress
the emotions which the selflessness of the other had inspired.

"Here," he cried at last, "I best tell you the whole story that's in my
mind. I told you I've been figuring it out. Well, it's figured to the
last decimal. You think you know me. Maybe you do. Maybe you know only
part of the things I know about myself. If you knew them all I'd hate to
think of the contempt you'd have to hand me. You see, Bat, I'm a coward,
a terrible moral coward. Oh, I'm not scared of any man living when it
comes to a fight. But my mind's full of ghosts and nightmares ready to
jump at me with every doubt, every new effort where I can't figure the
end. Years ago, when I was a youngster, I yearned for fortune. And I
realised that I had it in me to get it quick by means of that crazy
talent for figures you reckon is so wonderful. I got the chance and
jumped, for it. But every step I took left me scared to the verge of
craziness. When I hit up against Hellbeam I got a desire to beat him
that was irresistible, and I jumped into the fight with my heart in my
mouth. It was easy--so easy. Hellbeam was a babe in my hands. I could
play with him as a spider plays with its victim, and when, like a
spider, I'd bound him with my figures, hand and foot, I was free to suck