It was the same twisted smile that Alcott knew so well, two-thirds on one side of his face, the same shy, freakish look in the eyes as of a cornered animal. They used to laugh at home over Lolly's queer smile--Lolly the original, the unexpected, the sudden and fierce in his small resentments, yet how passionately loving, and how lovable and clever! They used to think so at home. Here he was, then, with his twisted smile, and hot, black eyes and jerking, vivid speech. His thin, straggling beard had changed his looks. He had aged fast in the six years. Alcott thought he would hardly have recognised him at a little distance. So--why, Hicks!--Carroll said Hicks used to drink down Alcott's own speeches like brandy! Hicks had killed Wood! “What else have you been up to, Lolly? That's the worst job yet.” The eyes of each regarded the other's hungrily. Allen chattered on in a low, excited voice. “Old Al, I love you so! Forgive me seventy times seven. Hey! I heard every speech you made, pretty near. What do you think? Say! What'll they do to me?” he whispered, turning to the window. “I wished I could get out. Say, Al, when you were in Nevada at Beekman's, where do you suppose I was? Over the divide at Secor's Lode, Number Two, and you came near spotting me once! I ain't a fool, anyway. I dodged you neat. I lived on the east side with Jimmy Shays. Say, he's a fool. I can sole two shoes to his one. But sometimes I don't remember, Al. I tried to remember how Mummy looked, and I couldn't. But I used to remember. But, Al, what'd you come for? Say, I cleared the track of Wood all right. Say, they'd never have caught me, if I'd got away then. They were too many. I kept out of your way all right. I wasn't going to mess you again, and that suited me all right, that way. I pegged shoes along with old Shays. Damn greasy Irishman, there, Coglan. I'll knife him some day. No! No! I won't, Al! Forgive me seventy times. I got something in me that burns me up. I ain't going to last long. Let 'em kill me. God, I was proud of you! I used to go home like dynamite, and collar old Shays, and yell, 'Down with 'em! Where's justice?' 'Wha's matter?' says Shays. 'Where is 't?' and goes hunting for justice at the bottom of a jug of forty-rod whiskey. Oh, Al! Al! Ain't we a sad story, you and I?” He broke down again, chattering, sobbing with soft, small sobs, and hid his face on the table. The gas jet leaped and fell, feebly, fitfully. The noises of the city, the roll of wheels and clang of street-car gongs, came in through the barred window. “I was running myself, too, Al, and that made me feel better. I been happy sometimes.” “Aren't you glad to see me, Lolly?” “Yes. But you ain't going to hold me down. Now, say, Al,” he pleaded, “don't you give it away! Folks'd be down on you. I ain't like I used to be. I'm proud of you, now. I ain't going to mess you any more, but I've done something myself, ain't I? Done for myself too, ain't I?”