"Whatever comes of this expedition of ours--if we fight like hell, as we probably shall, before it is finished--if we hate each other ever afterwards, that skin ought to remind us that we are much of a muchness." It might have been put into better English; it might almost have sounded like poetry had Guy Oscard been possessed of the poetic soul.

But this, fortunately, was not his; and all that might have been said was left to the imagination of Meredith.

What he really felt was that there need be no rivalry, and that he for one had no thought of such; that in the quest which they were about to undertake there need be no question of first and last; that they were merely two men, good or bad, competent or incompetent, but through all equal.
Neither of them suspected that the friendship thus strangely inaugurated at the rifle's mouth was to run through a longer period than the few months required to reach the plateau--that it was, in fact, to extend through that long expedition over a strange country that we call Life, and that it was to stand the greatest test that friendship has to meet with here on earth.
It was almost dark when at last they turned to go, Jack Meredith carrying the skin over his shoulder and leading the way.

There was no opportunity for conversation, as their progress was necessarily very difficult.

Only by the prattle of the stream were they able to make sure of keeping in the right direction.