CHAPTER XVIII.
Monday morning, Joe groaned over the first truck load of clothes to the washer.
"I say," he began.
"Don't talk to me," Martin snarled.
"I'm sorry, Joe," he said at noon, when they knocked off for dinner.
Tears came into the other's eyes.
"That's all right, old man," he said.

"We're in hell, an' we can't help ourselves.

An', you know, I kind of like you a whole lot.

That's what made it--hurt.

I cottoned to you from the first." Martin shook his hand.
"Let's quit," Joe suggested.