"It was a hard journey," he said evasively, yet with a kindly accent
to the words. "Such days take it out of a man, Carew. I shall brace
up in time."
Carew shook his head.
"That is just what you must not do. You have braced too long, as it
is. Your wounds were nothing but scratches. They healed up easily
enough, and you say, yourself, that they don't trouble you; but you
look--"
"Well?" "As if things had ended for you," Carew blurted out
desperately.
Slowly, wearily, Weldon lifted his eyes to his friend's face.
"Well, they have," he said, with an intonation of dreary finality.
"Rot!" Carew observed profanely. "Look here, Weldon, you've no
business to funk in this fashion. It's not like you, either."
The word stung Weldon. He scrambled to his feet and stood to
attention.
"Carew, no other man could say that to me," he said slowly.
Carew maintained his ground.
"No other man cares for you as I do, Harvey. We've been like
brothers, and I have been too proud of your record to be willing to
sit by, quiet, and see you spoil the last round of the game. There
is too much at stake." Weldon raised his brows.
"What is at stake?" he asked coldly.
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