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'
No more now!' interrupted Davis. 'No more, old man! Enough said. You've
a riling tongue when your back's up, Herrick. Just be glad we're friends
again, the same as what I am; and go tender on the raws; I'll see as you
don't repent it. We've been mighty near death this day--don't say whose
fault it was!--pretty near hell, too, I guess. We're in a mighty bad
line of life, us two, and ought to go easy with each other.'
He was maundering; yet it seemed as if he were maundering with some
design, beating about the bush of some communication that he feared to
make, or perhaps only talking against time in terror of what Herrick
might say next. But Herrick had now spat his venom; his was a kindly
nature, and, content with his triumph, he had now begun to pity. With
a few soothing words, he sought to conclude the interview, and proposed
that they should change their clothes.
'Not right yet,' said Davis. 'There's another thing I want to tell you
first. You know what you said about my children? I want to tell you why
it hit me so hard; I kind of think you'll feel bad about it too. It's
about my little Adar. You hadn't ought to have quite said that--but of
course I know you didn't know. She--she's dead, you see.'
'
Why, Davis!' cried Herrick. 'You've told me a dozen times she was
alive! Clear your head, man! This must be the drink.'
'No, SIR,' said Davis. 'She's dead. Died of a bowel complaint. That was
when I was away in the brig Oregon. She lies in Portland, Maine. "Adar,
8
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