“W’en W’isky got ’is nut out o’ that ’e was a sight to see! All his fine clothes—he dressed mighty blindin’ those days—were spoiled everlastin’! ’Is hair was towsled and his face—what I could see of it—was whiter than the ace of lilies. ’E stared once at me, and looked away as if I didn’t count; an’ then there were shootin’ pains chasin’ one another from my bitten finger into my head, and it was Gopher to the dark. That’s why I wasn’t at the inquest.” “But why did you hold your tongue afterward?” I asked. “It’s that kind of tongue,” he replied, and not another word would he say about it. “After that W’isky took to drinkin’ harder an’ harder, and was rabider an’ rabider anti-coolie, but I don’t think ’e was ever particularly glad that ’e dispelled Ah Wee. He didn’t put on so much dog about it w’en we were alone as w’en he had the ear of a derned Spectacular Extravaganza like you. ’E put up that headstone and gouged the inscription accordin’ to his varyin’ moods. It took ’im three weeks, workin’ between drinks. I gouged his in one day.” “When did Jo. die?” I asked rather absently. The answer took my breath: “Pretty soon after I looked at him through that knot-hole, w’en you had put something in his w’isky, you derned Borgia!” Recovering somewhat from my surprise at this astounding charge, I was half-minded to throttle the audacious accuser, but was restrained by a sudden conviction that came to me in the light of a revelation. I fixed a grave look upon him and asked, as calmly as I could: “And when did you go luny?” “Nine years ago!” he shrieked, throwing out his clenched hands—“nine years ago, w’en that big brute killed the woman who loved him better than she did me!—me who had followed ’er from San Francisco, where ’e won ’er at draw poker!—me who had watched over ’er for years w’en the scoundrel she belonged to was ashamed to acknowledge ’er and treat ’er white!—me who for her sake kept ’is cussed secret till it ate ’im up!—me who w’en you poisoned the beast fulfilled ’is last request to lay ’im alongside ’er and give ’im a stone to the head of ’im! And I’ve never since seen ’er grave till now, for I didn’t want to meet ’im here.” “Meet him? Why, Gopher, my poor fellow, he is dead!” “That’s why I’m afraid of ’im.” I followed the little wretch back to his wagon and wrung his hand at parting. It was now nightfall, and as I stood there at the roadside in the deepening gloom, watching the blank outlines of the receding wagon, a sound was borne to me on the evening wind—a sound as of a series of vigorous thumps—and a voice came out of the night: “Gee-up, there, you derned old Geranium.” A JUG OF SIRUP