"Let's put up the horses," I suggested. "They won't want us for half an
hour."

When we came in, the room had been set in order, the tea-kettle was
singing, the bedclothes straightened out, and Moore had just finished
washing the blood stains from Bruce's arms and neck.

"Just in time," he said. "I didn't like to tackle these," pointing to
the bandages.

All night long Moore soothed and tended the sick man, now singing softly
to him, and again beguiling him with tales that meant nothing, but that
had a strange power to quiet the nervous restlessness, due partly to the
pain of the wounded arm and partly to the nerve-wrecking from his months
of dissipation. The Duke seemed uncomfortable enough. He spoke to Bruce
once or twice, but the only answer was a groan or curse with an increase
of restlessness.

"He'll have a close squeak," said The Duke. The carelessness of the tone
was a little overdone, but The Pilot was stirred up by it.

"He has not been fortunate in his friends," he said, looking straight
into his eyes.

"A man ought to know himself when the pace is too swift," said The Duke,
a little more quickly than was his wont.

"You might have done anything with him. Why didn't you help him?"
Moore's tones were stern and very steady, and he never moved his eyes
from the other man's face, but the only reply he got was a shrug of the