"By God!" cried Denton; "I wish one would."
"Of course, if you feel like that—"
"You don't understand."
"P'raps I don't," said the swart man; and lapsed into a fuming silence.
When he spoke again his voice was less friendly, and he prodded Denton by way of address. "Look see!" he said: "are you going to let me show you 'ow to scrap?"
"It's tremendously kind of you," said Denton; "but—"
There was a pause. The swart man rose and bent over Denton.
"Too much ge'man," he said—"eh? I got a red face. . . By gosh! you are—you are a brasted fool!"
He turned away, and instantly Denton realised the truth of this remark.
The swart man descended with dignity to a cross way, and Denton, after a momentary impulse to pursuit, remained on the platform. For a time the things that had happened filled his mind. In one day his graceful system of resignation had been shattered beyond hope. Brute force, the final, the fundamental, had thrust its face through all his explanations and glosses and consolations and grinned enigmatically.
