Bill raised his glass, softly swirled its contents round and round, tasted it, and set it down. “The kepple o' words I had to say to ye was this: Git up and git!” Something like this had passed through Jeff's mind the day before the Mayfields came. Something like it had haunted him once or twice since. He turned quickly upon the speaker. “Ez how? you sez,” said Bill, catching at the hook. “I drives up yer some night, and you sez to me, 'Bill, hev you got two seats over to the Divide for me and aunty--out on a pasear.' And I sez, 'I happen to hev one inside and one on the box with me.' And you hands out yer traps and any vallybles ye don't want ter leave, and you puts your aunt inside, and gets up on the box with me. And you sez to me, ez man to man, 'Bill,' sez you, 'might you hev a kepple o' hundred dollars about ye that ye could lend a man ez was leaving the county, dead broke?' and I sez, 'I've got it, and I know of an op'nin' for such a man in the next county.' And you steps into THAT op'nin', and your creditors--'spesh'ly Parker--slips into THIS, and in a week they offers to settle with ye ten cents on the dollar.” Jeff started, flushed, trembled, recovered himself, and after a moment said, doggedly: “I can't do it, Bill; I couldn't.” “In course,” said Bill, putting his hands slowly into his pockets, and stretching his legs out--“in course ye can't because of a woman!” Jeff turned upon him like a hunted bear. Both men rose, but Bill already had his hand on Jeff's shoulder. “I reckoned a minute ago there was a sick gal in the house! Who's going to make a row now! Who's going to stamp and tear round, eh?” Jeff sank back on his chair.