, EWING’S STORY 61 
‘‘TDon’t mind my foolishness, please!’’ he said. 
‘Really, I’m more than grateful for what you did. — 
You saved my life, I think. If there were any pos- 
sible way I could show my gratitude I’d be only too 
glad to do so.’’ 
‘‘You might tell me,’’ I said, on the impulse of 
the moment, ‘‘what you meant just now by that re- 
mark about your luck?’’ 
Ewing glanced at me sharply. 
“That’s a matter which I don’t care to talk 
about.”’ 
“‘Oh, very well!’’ I answered, and that was all. 
We were rather silent for the rest of the journey 
to camp nor did either of us refer again to the topic 
so summarily dismissed. 
But after supper, as I sat alone in front of my 
tent, the violinist crossed over and flung himself on 
the ground beside me. 
“‘T was a little short this afternoon,’’ he began, 
“‘and I’m sorry I spoke as I did. I hope you’re not 
offended.’’ 
“‘Of course not!’’ 
“‘Well, I’m glad of that. I often think I’m get- 
ting morbid on certain subjects. Things have hap- 
pened that—well—I thought you were trying to— 
that you were getting curious.’’ 
“You were right,’’ I interrupted. ‘‘I was curi- 
ous about you, Ewing. To be frank, I can’t see why 
a man of your obvious education and talents should 
