“Ye air puttin’ a rope round my neck! Ye—knowin’ the Brumsaidge boys like ye do! Ef they war ter find his bones—ye know, ye know what would happen! O God A’mighty!” He struck his long, lean hands together as he held them above his head. “An’ ye’d do it! Ye’d put a rope round my neck fur the bare chance, the bare chance o’ findin’ the silver! O Lord! I hev been gin over—plumb gin over! What ailed me,” he went on, in frantic self-reproach,—“what ailed me ter tell the true place, many a lie ez I hev tole? Even the Devil fursook me, never whispered me nare lie ter tell this time,—this time, when a lie would hev saved my life! What ailed me ter tell the place—the place”— “Oh Jake, stop—_hush_!” exclaimed Rathburn, irritably. “Oh, I never ’lowed ez ye’d sarch that spot—ez ye’d put me in danger—the man ez gin ye all the chance ye ever hed”— “Mighty good chance!” sneered Rathburn, losing patience. “A piece of float that another fellow found, God knows where,—_stop_ that racket, Jake!” “Stop!” cried the mountaineer, still clasping and unclasping his hands above his head as he moved convulsively about the floor. “Whyn’t ye ax that thar worm in the fire,”—he pointed his quivering hand at a wretched, writhing thing that the heat had summoned from its nest in the rotten heart of the log forth into the midst of the flames, to turn hither and thither in a futile frenzy until consumed,—“whyn’t ye ax that worm ter stop?” “Go on, then, and have a fit,” said Rathburn coolly, “or work yourself into a fever.” He pointed to a small medicine-chest. “Shan’t cost you anything,—got that advantage over the worm.” His ridicule and his assumption of indifference were salutary. Baintree paused, looking restlessly about for a moment, then he returned to the hearth, shoving his chair with his knee back into the corner where he had sat before. His fear was not allayed, however, nor his sense of injury assuaged. “Oh, ye air a mighty aggervatin’ cuss, Eugene Rathburn!” he declared, lowering hopelessly at him across the hearth. “Ef I hed lived the life other men do, an’ hed hed my sheer o’ the good luck other folks gits, I’d hev too much sperit ter let ye kerry things like ye do. I’d kill ye afore I’d let ye harm me!” “I ain’t going to harm you,” said Rathburn casually. He did not even remember his clutch on his comrade’s throat. “Ef I hedn’t been through with jes’ what I hev been through with, ye wouldn’t treat me so. Ye wouldn’t dare treat another man—Teck Jepson, say—this-a-way.”