“Pinkerton!” cried I.
“No, no, not a word just now,” he hastened to proceed. “Let me speak first. I appreciate, though I can't imitate, the delicacy of your nature; and I can well understand you would rather die than speak of it, and yet might feel disappointed. I did think I could have done better myself. But when I found how tight money was in this city, and a man like Douglas B. Longhurst—a forty-niner, the man that stood at bay in a corn patch for five hours against the San Diablo squatters—weakening on the operation, I tell you, Loudon, I began to despair; and—I may have made mistakes, no doubt there are thousands who could have done better—but I give you a loyal hand on it, I did my best.”
“My poor Jim,” said I, “as if I ever doubted you! as if I didn't know you had done wonders! All day I've been admiring your energy and resource. And as for that affair——”
“No, Loudon, no more—not a word more! I don't want to hear,” cried Jim.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I don't want to tell you,” said I; “for it's a thing I'm ashamed of.”
“Ashamed, Loudon? Oh, don't say that; don't use such an expression even in jest!” protested Pinkerton.
“Do you never do anything you're ashamed of?” I inquired.
“No,” says he, rolling his eyes; “why? I'm sometimes sorry afterwards, when it pans out different from what I figured. But I can't see what I would want to be ashamed for.”
I sat a while considering with admiration the simplicity of my friend's character. Then I sighed. “Do you know, Jim, what I'm sorriest for?” said I. “At this rate, I can't be best man at your marriage.”
“My marriage!” he repeated, echoing the sigh. “No marriage for me now. I'm going right down to-
