"It's reedic'lous," said he, thoughtfully, in a moment.
"Why?"
"’Cause fer the reason why they don't no man deserve nuthin' fer doin' what he 'd orter," he answered, with a serious and determined look.
"You did well," said I, "and deserve anything you can get."
"Done my damdest!" said he. "But I did n't do nuthin' but git licked. Got shot an' tore an' slammed all over thet air deck, an' could n't do no harm t' nobody. Jes luk a hoss tied 'n the stall, an' a lot o' men whalin' 'im, an' a lot more tryin' t' scare 'im t' death."
"Wha' d' ye s'pose thet air thing's made uv?" he inquired after a little silence.
"Silver," said I.
"Pure silver?"
"Undoubtedly," was my answer.
"Judas Priest!" said he, taking out his wallet again, to look at the trophy. "Thet air mus' be wuth suthin'."
"More than a year's salary," said I.
He looked up at me with a sharp whistle of surprise.
