“You made the bargain,” he said, less decisively.

Courthorne nodded.  “Still, I fancy one of the conditions could be modified.  Now, if I wait for another three months, I may be dead before the reckoning comes, and while that probably wouldn’t grieve you, I could, when it appeared advisable, send for a magistrate and make a desposition.”

“You could,” said Winston.  “I have, however, something of the same kind in contemplation.”

Courthorne smiled curiously.  “I don’t know that it will be necessary.  Carry me on until you have sold your crop, and then make a reasonable offer, and it’s probable you may still keep what you have at Silverdale.  To be quite frank, I’ve a notion that my time in this world is tolerably limited, and I want a last taste of all it has to offer a man of my capacities before I leave it.  One is a long while dead, you know.”

Winston nodded, for he understood.  He had also during the grim cares of the lean years known the fierce longing for one deep draught of the wine of pleasure, whatever it afterwards cost him.

“It was that which induced you to look for a little relaxation at the settlement at my expense,” he said.  “A trifle paltry, wasn’t it?”

Courthorne laughed.  “It seems you don’t know me yet.  That was a frolic, indulged in out of humor, for your benefit.  You see, your role demanded a good deal more ability than you ever displayed in it, and it did not seem fitting that a very puritanical and priggish person should pose as me at Silverdale.  The little affair was the one touch of verisimilitude about the thing.  No doubt my worthy connections are grieving over your lapse.”

“My sense of humor had never much chance of developing,” said Winston grimly.  “What is the matter with you?”

“Pulmonary hemorrhage!” said Courthorne.  “Perhaps it was born in me, but I never had much trouble until after that night in the snow at the river.  Would you care to hear about it?  We’re not fond of each other, but after the steer-drivers I’ve been herding with, it’s a relief to talk to a man of moderate intelligence.”

“Go on,” said Winston.

“Well,” said Courthorne, “when the trooper was close behind me, my horse went through the ice, but somehow I crawled out.  We were almost across the river, and it was snowing fast, while I had a fancy that I might have saved the horse, but, as the troopers would probably have seen a mounted man, I let him go.  The stream sucked him under, and, though you may not believe it, I felt very mean when I saw nothing but the hole in the ice.  Then, as the troopers didn’t seem inclined to cross, I went on through the snow, and, as it happened, blundered across Jardine’s old shanty.  There was still a little prairie hay in the place, and I lay in it until morning, dragging fresh armfuls around me as I burnt it in the stove.  Did you ever spend a night, wet through, in a place that was ten to twenty under freezing?”