It would be a lie if you told me I am not. See these
hands--these arms! I'm down and out. I'm weak as a dog, and the stomach
you speak of is a myth. I haven't eaten a square meal in a year. Why do
you want me as a companion? Why do you think it would be a pleasure for
you to drag a decrepit misfit like myself up into a country like yours?
Is it because of your--your code of faith? Is it because you think you
may save a soul?"
He was breathing deeply. As he excoriated himself and bared his weakness
the hot blood crept slowly into his face.
"Why do you want me to go?" he demanded. "Why don't you ask some man
with red blood in his veins and a heart that hasn't been burned out? Why
have you asked me?"
Father Roland made as if to speak, and then caught himself. Again for a
passing flash there came that mysterious change in him, a sudden dying
out of the enthusiasm in his eyes, and a grayness in his face that came
and went like a shadow of pain. In another moment he was saying:
"I'm not playing the part of the good Samaritan, David. I've got a
personal and a selfish reason for wanting you with me. It may be
possible--just possible, I say--that I need you even more than you will
need me." He held out his hand.
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