Mr. Linton sat up in bed.  “Pneumonia!” he exclaimed.  Well, Jerry was getting exactly what he deserved.  He had called him, Tom, an “old fool,” a “dam’ old fool,” to be precise.  The epithet in itself meant nothing—­it was in fact a fatuous and feeble term of abuse as compared to the opprobrious titles which he and Jerry were in the habit of exchanging—­it was that abominable adjective which hurt.  Jerry and he had called each other many names at times, they had exchanged numerous gibes and insults, but nothing like that hateful word “old” had ever passed between them until this fatal morning.  Jerry Quirk himself was old, the oldest man in the world, perhaps, but Tom had exercised an admirable regard for his partner’s feelings and had never cast it up to him.  Thus had his consideration been repaid.  However, the poor fellow’s race was about run, for he couldn’t stand cold or exposure.  Why, a wet foot sent him to bed.  How, then, could a rickety ruin of his antiquity withstand the ravages of pneumonia—­ galloping pneumonia, at that?

Linton reflected that common decency would demand that he wait over a day or two and help bury the old man—­people would expect that much of him.  He’d do it.  He’d speak kindly of the departed; he’d even erect a cross and write an epitaph upon it—­a kindly, lying epitaph extolling the dead man’s virtues, and omitting all mention of his faults.

Once more that hacking cough sounded, and the listener stirred uneasily.  Jerry had some virtues—­a few of the common, elemental sort—­he was honest and he was brave, but, for that matter, so were most people.  Yes, the old scoundrel had nerve enough.  Linton recalled a certain day, long past, when he and Quirk had been sent out to round up some cattle-rustlers.  Being the youngest deputies in the sheriff’s office, the toughest jobs invariably fell to them.  Those were the good, glad days, Tom reflected.  Jerry had made a reputation on that trip and he had saved his companion’s life—­Linton flopped nervously in his bed at the memory.  Why think of days dead and gone?  Jerry was an altogether different man in those times.  He neither criticized nor permitted others to criticize his team-mate, and, so far as that particular obligation went, Linton had repaid it with compound interest.  If anything, the debt now lay on Jerry’s side.

Tom tried to close the book of memory and to consider nothing whatever except the rankling present, but, now that his thoughts had begun to run backward, he could not head them off.  He wished Jerry wouldn’t cough; it was a distressing sound, and it disturbed his rest.  Nevertheless, that hollow, hacking complaint continued and finally the listener arose, lit a lantern, put on a slicker and untied his tent flaps.

Jerry’s stove was sizzling in the partial shelter of the canvas sheet; over it the owner crouched in an attitude of cheerless dejection.

“How you making out?” Tom inquired, gruffly.  His voice was cold, his manner was both repellent and hostile.