fear
By David R. Solomon
There were only five words.
They neither affirmed nor denied what had gone before. But they changed the whole trend of the argument.
The men of the engineering gang were lying around the camp-fire, preparatory to going out on the job. It was cool in the shade of the thick trees, with the damp feel of early morning hanging over everything. Farther out, over the river, the sun gave promise of better weather later in the day.
Smoking, waiting for the laggards to clean up their plates, the engineering gang—according to invariable man-custom—had begun experiences, jokes, arguments. Over all hung the pungent smell of strong, fresh coffee, and much frying bacon.
Baldy Jenkins, the eighteen-year-old had started it.
"Wish I had a million dollars," he remarked.
Red Flannel Mike gave the ball a roll.
"You do not," he denied stoutly. "Be givin' you a million—and the Lord hisself only knows what you'd be a-doing wid it."
"Hell I don't," said Baldy. "Bet I could tell you right now how I'd spend every penny of it."
"Bet you don't," broke in another of the gang. "Fellow never does know what he's goin' to do till it hits him, square between the eyes."
"Offer me a million," insisted Baldy Jenkins.
"Aw, not that way. Take somep'n where two men might act different. You don't know what you'd do. I don't. No man does—no more'n that kid over there does."
His lazy gesture indicated a small, khaki-trousered figure. The eyes of the rest of the gang followed.
At first glance she might have been a lad of ten or eleven years. Closer inspection, however, showed the mop of flaxen hair, bobbed off at the level of her ears, and the tender, little-girl face. She was marching around the camp like an inspector-general of an army, into this, that, everything.
"'Cert she wouldn't," affirmed Red Flannel Mike. "Coulter's kid's just like you or me. She'd have to be up against it to know—an' maybe not then."
"Huh! Even that kid.…" Baldy snatched up the gauntlet.
They were off. Hot and royally waged the battle.
The advocates of the unexpected gained ascendancy. Louder and more extravagant grew their claims. No man could predict anything. No man knew what he would do. Put him face to face with any situation, any danger, and he would act differently from the way he thought he would.
It was then that Coulter spoke.
He did not raise his voice. If anything, it was lowered. Hitherto, he had sat, silent, listening to the battle of words, his bandaged left arm swung tightly at his side.
"I don't know about that," was all he said.
Sudden quiet fell. There came a restless stirring, then tacit agreement. These men of rougher enjoyment—
