Two men with a similarity of tastes cannot chum together in a little tent here and there in the mountains without becoming confidential, hence it was that before long George Harrington pretty well knew his companion's impecunious history--that is, as much as he chose to tell, and on the other hand, not only had Portway, apparently without pumping, learned Harrington's position, but had received an invitation to accompany him to England. "Have another day," Portway would say laughingly; "at present you are free. Who can say when you will enjoy such another succession of climbs as you have out here." "True," Harrington said thoughtfully. "When you get back, of course, it will be pleasant to inherit the money; but what about the wife?" "Well," said Harrington sternly, "what about her?" "I mean," said Portway hastily, "how do you know what she may be like? Take another view of the case--pass me the tobacco pouch--I am a selfish man as well as a poor one. You are giving me a delightful trip, finding me in food, a horse, rifle and ammunition, everything I could wish for, including a glass of prime old Bourbon whiskey. So I say, let's keep it on as long as we can. By the way, how long have we been out here?" "Going on for six weeks." "Which are like six days." "Ah, well," said Harrington over and over again, "we will not give up yet." This conversation, or one very similar, occurred again and again before the day waned. Dan Portway sat with his chin in his hands gazing down at the sleeping figure in the shade. When Dan Portway smiled, his was a pleasant though rather a coarse face, and his changeful life had made him a man full of information, but when he did not smile his face was not a pleasant one, vice in more than one form having left its mark. When he looked at Harrington waking, he invariably smiled; but Harrington was sleeping, and Dan Portway did not smile now. But he sat thinking of his companion's prospects--wealth, a handsome wife, a life of luxury--and compared these prospects with his own. As he watched the sleeper's frank, sun-browned face, he recalled everything he had told him about home, his father and grandfather. He noted the ring upon his finger--a heavy gold circle roughly beaten out of a piece of virgin gold. He took in his lineaments, and compared their ages, and he thought of the letters Harrington had among his traps in the tent miles away beneath the pines. There were other little things, too, there in the saddlebags, all of which seemed to fit in with a misty chaotic set of ideas which floated through his brain. Lastly, his eyes seemed to be fascinated by his companion's breast as he lay there with his head thrown back, his flannel shirt all open at the collar and chest, and as he gazed a ray of sunlight shot between the boughs, and fell right upon the white skin.