"No. Brodie's gone."

The voice, though very weak, sharpened perceptibly:

"You, who are you?"

"What difference does it make?--if you need help."

"Who said I wanted help? Not Brodie!"

"No. Not Brodie."

He dropped his roll and began working his way through the bushes.
Presently he came to a spot from which he could see a figure propped up
against a tree. There was a rifle across the man's knees, gripped in
both hands. And yet surely the rifle had been whirled out of his hands
in his fall. Then he was not hurt badly, after all, since he had managed
to work his way back up to it.

"Oh! It's you, is it, King?" The man against the tree did not seem
overjoyed; there was a sullen note in his voice.

King came on, breaking his way through the brush.

"Hello," he said, a little taken aback. "It's you, is it? I thought it
would be----" But he did not say who. He came on and stood over the man
on the ground, stooping for an instant to peer close into his face.
"Hurt much?" he asked.