Radlett pounded upon the nickel bell on the smoking table, and ordered two cigars. Stephen bit the end of his cigar hastily, while Radlett produced a clipper from his pocket, and carefully cut the end of his. These unconscious actions portrayed well the differences in their characters. Drawing a match from the white earthenware holder, Baird scratched it on the rough surface, and then held the light to Stephen’s cigar.

“Mine is lighted, thank you, Baird,” said Loring, and through blue circles of smoke he watched Radlett light his own cigar.

“I had almost forgotten what a stocky old brute Baird was,” he mused. “I do not think, though, that I could ever forget that dear old face. Of all the faces that I ever knew his is the homeliest, and the kindest! If he poked that long jaw of his out at me, and looked at me with those honest eyes, he might tell me that black was white, and I should fight the man who said that it was not true.”

Radlett also utilized those first moments of silence brought about by a good cigar, an old friend, and a comfortable chair, to make a few observations of his own.

“In five years, Steve has changed a great deal,” he thought. “Five years of failure, and drifting, such as I judge these to have been, leave their mark on any man, definitely and indefinitely. Imagine Loring, the fastidious, in those clothes five years ago! And then the old frank manner has become a bit hesitant. He seems always on the defensive. Poor old chap, he must have had some pretty hard blows. The old light in his eyes is no longer there; but after all he has that same quality of winning appeal, of humor and of latent strength, which nothing can obliterate, which always has made and always will make every one who knows him hope for the best, and pardon the worst.” At the conclusion of his reflections, Baird’s eyes were damp.

Stephen smoked slowly, as one would sip a rare old wine. Then, taking the cigar from his mouth, he held it before his eyes, twirling the label slowly around, and looking at it appreciatively.

“It is eleven months since I smoked a good cigar, Baird; perhaps you can guess how this one tastes to me,” said Loring softly, almost as if talking to himself. Then he relapsed again into silence.

Radlett puffed vigorously on his cigar, then said: “Steve, it is your own fault that you are not smoking good cigars all the time.”

“Perhaps it is,” answered Loring; “but the fact remains, and eleven months is a long time out of one’s life to lose such happiness.”

“The last time that I heard of you, you were in Chicago,” remarked Radlett. “Some one told me that you had a good position there. What happened to you?”

“Fired,” was the laconic answer.

“Did you deserve to be?”

“Yes.”

One of the things that Loring’s friends held dearest in him was the fact that he never shirked the truth in the matter of his delinquencies. His own word on the matter was final. In the old days Loring’s deficiencies had been among his most charming attributes. People had always spoken hopefully of “When he buckles down.” Now the “When he will,” had become “Now that he has not,” and his deficiencies were not so charming.

Radlett smoked on imperturbably. When he again spoke, his voice was thick with smoke.

“What was your last position?”

“Hoist engineer, Quentin Mining Company.”

Again the query: “Why did you leave?”

“Fired,” repeated Stephen, flushing savagely. Then looking Radlett in the eyes, he added: “I was drunk, and through my fault two men were killed.”

Leaning forward, Radlett laid his hand on Loring’s shoulder, and gripped it tightly with his strong fingers.

“Steve, old man, I am sorry for you. I know what this must mean to you. You were always the most kind-hearted fellow on earth, and I can see how this has crushed and saddened you. I’m—I’m damned sorry—but, Steve, you needed it. It will be the making of you, Steve. We have all been wanting to help you, and we could not; you would not let us. You have lost almost everything in the world,—your money, your position, your family. You have lost prize after prize which you might have won; and all these things have not held you. You still had that quality of drifting. You used to think,—I remember well how we used to talk it over,—that love would hold a man. It won’t. If you have tried it, you know”—Loring breathed hard—“if you have not, then you have been spared one more blow. You never had, or could have had, religion; I don’t know what that might have done for you.” Radlett was speaking fast now, and though he struck hard, Loring never flinched.

“You always knew that you were hurting yourself by what you did; but that did not check you,” went on Radlett. “You had, I remember, a creed of ethics in which, so you said, you logically believed. You know how much good that has done you.

“Steve, I am as sorry for you as if you were myself—yes, sorrier.” In the intensity of their grasp, his fingers almost crushed Loring’s shoulder. “I know what it seems to you, the feeling of guilt, and of remorse; but you deserved it and you needed it. The one thing that could have stopped your drifting was to find that your destiny and actions are inextricably tangled with those of other men. Now that you have learned that by drifting you may sink other ships, you won’t drift. I know you, Steve, and I swear it. This has been your salvation.” Radlett stopped short, and sank back into his chair.

Stephen sat looking sternly into the smoke. There were deep lines beneath his eyes, showing dark against his pallor, for so great was the tumult within him that even through his heavy tan his face showed white. When he spoke it was as a man who opens his mouth, and does not know whether the words that he speaks are loud or soft.

“You are right, Baird. I was wrong, and Baird, I’ve thrown over everything in the world that I cared about. There was a girl, Baird; you were right about that, too. She believed in me, even though she did not care. I cared for her more than for anything that I have ever dreamed of in the world. She was everything to me, Baird, and I promised her that I would make good. I broke my word. It was the only thing that I had not broken before. Well, my love for her did not check me.

“But since that—that—murder,” he spoke now from deep in his chest, “I have gripped myself; I have found myself. I am going to work up again, Baird. I can,—I am on the up grade. I am sure of it. It is a hard struggle, but the fight of it makes it all the more worth while. It will be hard, and it will take time; but I can do it.”

Radlett stared out of the window for a few moments, as though deeply absorbed in watching a passing carriage. Letting his eyes travel back to Loring, he asked: “Did you ever hear of the Kay mine? I think that it was situated near where you were last working.”

Stephen nodded. He was relieved at the change from the tenseness of the conversation, and a little ashamed of the emotion which he had shown. “Yes,” he answered, “it was only fifteen or twenty miles from Quentin. An English syndicate bought it some time ago. They brought out polo ponies, dog-carts, and heaven knows what besides, to gladden their hearts while in exile. I rode there only a few weeks ago, and looked over the place. The mine has been shut down for a year. It is a wonder that they were ever able to open it in the first place, with all the nonsense that they had. A man whom I saw there told me that the English managers had spent two days in arguing where to put the ‘baths in the houses of the tenantry.’ I hear that the mine has just been sold again.”

Radlett grinned from ear to ear at the thought of the effect on the community of a remark about the “tenantry.”

“Still,” went on Loring, “almost everybody says that it is a very rich property, and would have paid well if it had only been worked properly. The indications were very good for a big vein.”

Radlett beat a tattoo with his fingers on the arms of his chair.

“I have just bought the mine,” he said.

Stephen looked at him in surprise.

“I thought,” he said, “that you were only interested in railroads.”

“That is true; but this is a sort of ‘flyer.’ I had the chance to buy the property very cheaply, and the expert whom I sent to look at it reported it as good, if it were properly managed. I must get as manager a man whom I can absolutely trust, as I shall have no time to supervise the work personally. Stephen, will you take the position?”

Loring sat up straight in his chair.

“I am not the man for the place,” he said; “I know very little about mining, and besides—”

“Leave out the ‘besides’,” answered Radlett. “That is over with. I would trust you now as soon as any man living. As for the knowledge of mining, you will not require any. There is a good mine foreman there who can attend to that. What I want is a man to organize and run the plant, to make it a paying producer. It needs a man who understands men, more than a man who understands mining. The ore is there. The men to get the ore will be there; but there must be a head for the whole system. You know, better than I do, that a new mine means a new community to be governed. It needs a man who will see that for every copper cent that goes into the ground, two copper cents come out, a man who will see that the machinery which is ordered arrives on time. It needs a man who will pick the right subordinates and will give them pride in their work. It needs a man who will get the labor, and keep it there. That is what I want you for, Steve. You can do the work. Now will you?”

Two voices seemed to whisper in Loring. One was of pride, the other was of pride in himself. The voice of pride whispered: “He is your friend, and is offering this to you from charity.” The other voice, aggressive and self-reliant, whispered: “You can do the work well. It needs a man, and you are capable of doing it.”

“Baird,” he said brokenly, “I will. I can’t thank you; it is far too big a chance to be acknowledged by mere thanks. But I will do my best for you, and if I fail, it will be because I am not a big enough man, and not because I have not tried.”

“The thanks will be from me to you, when the Kay is the biggest producer in Pinal County,” responded Radlett. “If you do your best, it will be the best that can be done. Don’t think that it is from friendship that I offer you this. I always keep friendship and business apart, and I am offering this to you because you are the man that I need.” Radlett took a large leather covered note-book from his pocket.

“Here are the details of the proposition,” he said, and for almost an hour he read aloud a list of figures and estimates. Loring listened, keenly alert, and questioned and criticised with an insight which surprised Radlett, who several times looked up in approval at some suggestion. When he had finished, he closed the book, and said: “The acting manager will start you on your work. The mine was opened last week, but everything there is still at sixes and sevens. When do you think that you can start north?”

“I will take the eleven o’clock train to-night,” answered Stephen, decidedly, “only—”

“By the way,” said Baird, in a matter of fact manner, “you had better draw your first month’s salary in advance. There will be a great many things that you need to get.” He wrote a check and gave it to Loring. “They will cash this for us at the office. I shall telegraph to-night to the mine, telling them to expect you; also to the company in Tucson, telling them to honor your drafts.”

Radlett rose and looked at his watch. “It is eight o’clock and I am as hungry as a bear, and,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “if you can leave that house-party of yours, where the girls have such charming umbrellas, we might dine together before you start.”

They entered the dining-room, where the orchestra was playing gaily, and settled themselves at a table glowingly lighted with candles under softened shades.

“Doesn’t this seem like old times, Steve?” said Radlett, while he carved the big planked steak which they had ordered. Throughout the meal, time and again the phrase: “Do you remember?” was repeated, recalling hosts of memories, both sad and gay. The intimacy between Radlett and Loring had been of such depth and woven with so many bonds that the years in which they had been separated made no difference in their complete companionship. They were not forced to fall back on the past on account of lack of sympathy and mutual interest in the present, as is so often the case; but rather they looked backward as one might open a much loved book, the interest of which increases as the covers wear out, and in which the delight is intensified when some congenial soul has shared its moods, and its laughter. Through all the conversation, Radlett, with an inborn tact unexpected in a man whose manner was so bluff, skilfully recalled Stephen’s successes, and dwelt upon them in an endeavor to raise that self-confidence in Loring which had been shaken to its core. Stephen’s failures were recalled by Stephen himself, whose recollection of them was undimmed though his perspective on them had changed. So quickly did the time pass that it was with a start that they both heard the clock in the hall outside strike ten, in a deliberate, impersonal fashion. In answer to a question from Radlett, Loring shook his head.

“No, I have no preparations to make. If the city with no history is happy, then certainly the person with no possessions to bother him should be content.”

So they smoked in quiet companionship until it was time to leave for the station. Baird saw Loring on board the train, and they parted after a silent, firm handshake, which gave strength to one and conviction to the other.