didn’t you die in the swamps instead of your photographer? Come. Confess. How heavy was he? How broad were his shoulders? How deep his chest? — wide his nostrils? — tough his resistance?”

“He weighed a hundred and thirty-five,” Graham admitted ruefully. “But he looked all right and fit at the start. I think I was more surprised than he when he turned up his toes.” Graham shook his head. “It wasn’t because he was a light weight and small. The small men are usually the toughest, other things being equal. But you’ve put your finger on the reason just the same. He didn’t have the physical stamina, the resistance, — You know what I mean, Dick?”

“In a way it’s like the quality of muscle and heart