“Kill ’im? I should say he did, rather. Doesn’t everybody know that? Didn’t he stan’ up before the coroner’s jury and confess it? And didn’t they find a verdict of ‘Came to ’is death by a wholesome Christian sentiment workin’ in the Caucasian breast’? An’ didn’t the church at the Hill turn W’isky down for it? And didn’t the sovereign people elect him Justice of the Peace to get even on the gospelers? I don’t know where you were brought up.” “But did Jo. do that because the Chinaman did not, or would n’ot, learn to cut down trees like a white man?” “Sure!—it stan’s so on the record, which makes it true an’ legal. My knowin’ better doesn’t make any difference with legal truth; it wasn’t my funeral and I wasn’t invited to deliver an oration. But the fact is, W’isky was jealous o’ _me_”—and the little wretch actually swelled out like a turkeycock and made a pretense of adjusting an imaginary neck-tie, noting the effect in the palm of his hand, held up before him to represent a mirror. “Jealous of _you_!” I repeated with ill-mannered astonishment. “That’s what I said. Why not?—don’t I look all right?” He assumed a mocking attitude of studied grace, and twitched the wrinkles out of his threadbare waistcoat. Then, suddenly dropping his voice to a low pitch of singular sweetness, he continued: “W’isky thought a lot o’ that Chink; nobody but me knew how ’e doted on ’im. Couldn’t bear ’im out of ’is sight, the derned protoplasm! And w’en ’e came down to this clear-in’ one day an’ found him an’ me neglectin’ our work—him asleep an’ me grapplin a tarantula out of ’is sleeve—W’isky laid hold of my axe and let us have it, good an’ hard! I dodged just then, for the spider bit me, but Ah Wee got it bad in the side an’ tumbled about like anything. W’isky was just weigh-in’ me out one w’en ’e saw the spider fastened on my finger; then ’e knew he’d made a jack ass of ’imself. He threw away the axe and got down on ’is knees alongside of Ah Wee, who gave a last little kick and opened ’is eyes—he had eyes like mine—an’ puttin’ up ’is hands drew down W’isky’s ugly head and held it there w’ile ’e stayed. That wasn’t long, for a tremblin’ ran through ’im and ’e gave a bit of a moan an’ beat the game.” During the progress of the story the narrator had become transfigured. The comic, or rather, the sardonic element was all out of him, and as he painted that strange scene it was with difficulty that I kept my composure. And this consummate actor had somehow so managed me that the sympathy due to his _dramatis personæ_ was given to himself. I stepped forward to grasp his hand, when suddenly a broad grin danced across his face and with a light, mocking laugh he continued: