"And banks," said Apache Kid, gazing on me to see the effect of this disclosure. Donoghue stretched across to me, his loose face gleaming with a kind of joy. "Read that," he said. "Read what that says;" and he handed me a long newspaper cutting. What I read on the cutting was: "Daring Hold-Up of the Transcontinental. The Two-some Gang again at Work." "That’s us," said Donoghue, gloating. "It reads pretty good, but Apache here says there ain’t no sense in the headin’ about the two-some gang—says them journalist boys is no good. Seems to me a right slick notice—that’s us, anyway." Apache Kid seemed disturbed, annoyed. "Well! what do you think?" he said, fixing me with his eye. "I ’m sorry," said I. Donoghue threw back his head and laughed. "It’s not the right sort of way to live?" said Apache Kid, questioningly. "You know I can make out a fine case in its defence." "Yes," I replied. "I have no doubt you could, and that’s just what makes me all the more sorry to think of your doing this. Still, I feel that you having told me prevents me stating an opinion." "If someone else had told——" he began. "Then I might speak," said I. "Should it not be the other way about?" he asked, half smiling. "Perhaps it should," said I. "But if you honour me by telling me, it is enough for me just to say I am sorry. Would you have me preach?" He looked on me with great friendliness. "I understand the sentiment," said he. "But I should like you to preach, if you wish." "Well," said I, "I have no doubt you could, with the brains you have and your turn for sophistry, make out a very entertaining defence for such a life. ’Murder as a fine art,’ you know——" "Murder?" asked Donoghue; but Apache Kid silenced him with a gesture, and I continued: "But neither you nor those who heard your defence could treat it otherwise than as a piece of airy and misplaced, misdirected wit, on a par with your misplaced love of adventure." He nodded at that part, and his face cleared a little. "That but makes me all the more sorry," said I, "to know you are——" I paused. "A parasite!" I blurted out. "Parasite!" he cried; and his hand flew down to his holster, wavered, and fell soundless on his crossed legs. It was the first time he had looked on me in anger. "What’s parasite?" asked Donoghue. "A louse," said Apache Kid. "Hell!" drawled Donoghue, and glanced at me. "You need lookin’ after." "There are parasites and parasites," said I. "In this case it is more like these deer-lice we came by in the forest." We had suffered from these, but I have not said anything of them, for the subject is not pleasant. "Well," drawled Donoghue. "They are fighters, anyway, they are. You kind o’ respect them." Apache Kid smiled. "Yes," he said, in a low voice, "it’s the right word, nevertheless." Donoghue jeered.