Ill luck for Viking in the hour of her success. Phil's shattered hulk is drifting. The masts have gone by the board, the pilot from the captain's side. Only the man's "unconquerable soul" is on the bridge, watching the craft dip at the bow till the waters, their sport out, should hugely swallow it. We were all gathered round. Phil had asked to see the lad who, by neglecting the machinery for a moment, had wrecked his life. "My boy," he said, "you played an ugly game. It was a big mistake. I haven't any grudge agen you, but be glad I'm not one that'd haunt you for your cussed foolishness. . . . There, now, I feel better; that's off my mind!" "If you're wanting to show remorse or anything," he continued, "there's my friend, Mr. Roscoe, The Padre--he's all right, you understand!--Are you there? . . . Why don't you speak?" He stretched out his hand. The lad took it, but he could not speak: he held it and sobbed. Then Phil understood. His brow wrinkled with a sudden trouble. He said: "There, never mind. I'm dying, but it isn't what I expected. It doesn't smart nor tear much; not more than river-rheumatism. P'r'aps I wouldn't mind it at all if I could see." For Phil was entirely blind now. The accident had destroyed his remaining eye. Being blind, he had already passed that first corridor of death--darkness. Roscoe stooped over him, took his hand, and spoke quietly to him. Phil knew the voice, and said with a faint smile: "Do you think they'd plant me with municipal honours--honours to pardners?" "We'll see to that, Phil," said Mr. Devlin from behind the clergyman. Phil recognised the voice. "You think that nobody'll kick at making it official?" "Not one, Phil." "And maybe they wouldn't mind firin' a volley--Lights out, as it were: and blow the big whistle? It'd look sociable, wouldn't it?" "There'll be a volley and the whistle, Phil--if you have to go," said Mr. Devlin. There was a silence, then the reply came musingly: "I guess I hev to go. . . . I'd hev liked to see the corporation runnin' longer, but maybe I can trust the boys." A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice: "By the holy! yes, you can trust us." "Thank you kindly. . . . If it doesn't make any difference to the rest, I'd like to be alone with The Padre for a little--not for religion, you understand, for I go as I stayed, and I hev my views,--but for private business." Slowly, awkwardly, the few river-drivers passed out--Devlin and Mrs. Falchion and Ruth and I with them--for I could do nothing now for him--he was broken all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened then. "Padre," he said to Roscoe, "are we alone?" "Quite alone, Phil." "Well, I hevn't any crime to tell, and the business isn't weighty; but I hev a pal at Danger Mountain--" He paused. "Yes, Phil?"