He began with apologies, attempting to soothe the other’s anger. He had not meant to make a scene like this; it was the gunmen who had forced it, putting his life in danger. It was the very devil, being chased about at night and shot at! He had lost his nerve, really; he had forgot what little manners he had been able to keep as a miner’s buddy. He had made a spectacle of himself; good Lord yes, he realised how he must seem! --And Hal looked at his dirty miner’s jumpers, and then at Percy. He could see that Percy was in hearty agreement thus far--he had indeed made a spectacle of himself, and of Percy too! Hal was sorry about this latter, but here they were, in a pickle, and it was certainly too late now. This story was out--there could be no suppressing it! Hal might sit down on his reporter-friend, Percy might sit down on the waiters and the conductor and the camp-marshal and the gunmen--but he could not possibly sit down on all his friends! They would talk about nothing else for weeks! The story would be all over Western City in a day--this amazing, melodramatic, ten-twenty-thirty story of a miner’s buddy in the private car of the Coal King’s son! “And you must see, Percy,” Hal went on, “it’s the sort of thing that sticks to a man. It’s the thing by which everybody will form their idea of you as long as you live!” “I’ll take my chances with my friends’ criticism,” said the other, with some attempt at the Harrigan manner. “You can make it whichever kind of story you choose,” continued Hal, implacably. “The world will say, He decided for the dollars; or it will say, He decided for the lives. Surely, Percy, your family doesn’t need those particular dollars so badly! Why, you’ve spent more on this one train-trip!” And Hal waited, to give his victim time to calculate. The result of the thinking was a question worthy of Old Peter. “What are _you_ getting out of this?”