“By heaven,” declared Sinclair, when the girl had gone about some housework, “I’d actually think you believed that God was on your side.  You talk about Him so familiar—­like you and Him was partners.”

John Gaspar smiled one of his rare smiles.  He had a way of looking for a long moment at another before he spoke.  All that he was about to say was first registered in his face.  It was easy to understand how Sally Bent had been entrapped by the classic regularity of those features and the strange manner of the schoolteacher.  She lived in a country where masculine men were a drug on the market.  John Gaspar was the pleasant exception.

“You see,” explained Gaspar, “I had to cheer Sally by saying something like that.  Women like to have such things said.  She’ll be absolutely confident now, because she thinks I’m not disturbed.  Very odd, but very true.”

“And it seems to me,” said Sinclair, frowning, “that you’re not much disturbed, Gaspar.  How does that come?”

“What can I do?”

“Maybe you’d be man enough to try to break away.”

“From you?  Tush!  I know it is impossible.  I’d as soon try to hide myself in an open field from that hawk.  No, no!  I’ll give you my parole, my word of honor that I’ll make no escape.”

But Sinclair struck in with:  “I don’t want your parole.  Hang it, man, just do your best, and I’ll do mine.  You try to give me the slip, and I’ll try to keep you from it.  That’s square all around.”

Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air of judicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap.  A great many words came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained from speech.

In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had never detested any human being before or since.  To him no sin was so great as the sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlatively weak.  He had something in place of courage, but just what that thing was, Sinclair could not tell.

Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsed him.  No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary.  One certainty was growing upon him.  He wished Gaspar to escape.  It would bring him shame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not the slightest respect.  Let them think as they pleased.

It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him.  He softened his voice.  “Gaspar,” he said, “keep your head up.  Make up your mind that you’ll fight to the last gasp.  Why, it makes me plumb sick to see a grown man give up like you do!”

His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.

“You’d ought to be packing yourself full of courage,” went on Sinclair.  “Here’s your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back.  Two agin’ one, you’ll be.  Ain’t that a chance, I ask you?”