Yet there was enough doubt, enough of haunting suspicion, that he had lost or alienated a powerful affection, to make him thoroughly miserable.

He returned his friend's grasp convulsively and buried his face upon his shoulder.

But he was above feeling a certain exultation in the effect of his misery upon the dog-like, unreasoning affection of Patterson, nor could he entirely refrain from slightly posing his affliction before that sympathetic but melancholy man.

Suddenly he raised his head, drew back, and thrust his hand into his bosom with a theatrical gesture.
"What's to keep me from killing Poindexter in his tracks ?" he said wildly.
"Nothin' but _his_ shooting first," returned Patterson, with dismal practicality.

"He's mighty quick, like all them army men.