Honor sat on beside him, fanning him until her arm ached, resting it until he stirred again, trying to wet her dry lips with her thickened tongue. She wasn't thinking; she was merely waiting, standing it. It was a relief not to talk, but she must talk when she was with the boys again; it helped to keep them up, to keep an air of normality about things. Jimsy King had read the message Carter held up to him and gone away without comment, and Carter had stayed on in the _sala_. It was almost an hour before Jimsy came back. Honor's stepfather would have marked and marveled at the change so brief a little space of time had been able to register in the bonny boy's face. The flesh seemed to have paled and receded and the bones seemed more sharply modeled; more insistent; and the eyes looked very old and at the same time pitifully young. He was very quiet and sure of himself. "Jimsy," said Carter, "I shouldn't have told you, _now_, but I went off my head." Jimsy nodded. "The time doesn't matter, Cart'. I just want to ask you one thing, straight from the shoulder. I've been thinking and thinking ... trying to take it in. Sometimes I seem to get it for a minute, that Skipper cares for you instead of me, and then it's gone again. All I can seem to hang on to is that telegram." The painful calm of his face flickered and broke up for an instant and there was an answering disturbance in Carter's own. "I keep seeing that ... all the time. But there's no use talking about it. What I want to ask you is this, Cart'"--he went on slowly in his hoarse and roughened voice--"you honestly think Skipper is sticking to me only because she thinks it's the thing to do? Because she thinks she must keep her word?" Carter swallowed hard and tried to moisten his aching throat, and he did not look at his friend. "Is that what you honestly believe, Cart'?" Carter brought his eyes back with an effort and his heart contracted. Jimsy King--_Jimsy King_--the boy he had envied and hated and loved by turns all these years; Jimsy King, idolized, adored in the old safe days--the old story book days-- King! King! King! K-I-N-G, KING! G-I-N-K, GINK! He's the King Gink! He's the King Gink! He's the King Gink! K-I-N-G, King! KING! The Jimsy King, the young prince who had had everything that all the wealth of Ali Baba's cave couldn't compass for Carter Van Meter ... standing here before him now, his face drained of its color and joy, begging him for a hope. There was a long moment when he hesitated, when the forces within him fought breathlessly and without quarter, but--long ago Stephen Lorimer had said of him--"_there's nothing frail about his disposition ... his will doesn't limp._" He wrenched his gaze away before he answered, but he answered steadily. "That is what I believe."