I minded even a spot of rust on the blade. "Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going. That peculiar swelling of the tongue and dryness which sometimes comes with fever filled my mouth. The knife was now tightly gripped in his right hand, his fingers twisting my shirt collar into a tourniquet. I straightened my back, gathered all my strength, and lunged forward. The knife flashed, and then a horrible thing happened!" [Illustration: Again his fingers tightened; my breath was going.] Boggs stopped and began mopping his face with his handkerchief. The memory of the fight for his life seemed to have strangely affected him. No one of the coterie had ever seen him so stirred, and no one had ever dreamed that he could tell a story with so much real dramatic power. In the few moments in which he had been speaking the room was almost breathless except for the tones of his voice. "Go on, Boggs, don't stop!" said Lonnegan. "In the struggle for mastery the point of the dagger pressed against my heart. There came a sudden lunge--Oh, I guess, boys, I won't go any further; I never like to think of the affair. I'd no business to tell it; always affects me this way." "Yes, go on; served the brute right," spoke up Mac. "I tried, of course, to avoid it, but I was powerless. The knife went straight through my own heart, and I fell dead at his feet. That afternoon they threw my body in the pool. I have lain there ever since." The listeners, one and all, glared at Boggs. The surprise had been so great that for an instant no one found his tongue. Then the fireside rang with shouts of laughter. Lonnegan got his breath first. "Boggs," he cried, "you are the most picturesque liar I know." "Yes, Lonny, I guess that's so; but I gave you fellows a _thrill_, and that's what none of you gave me!" PART VI _Wherein Mac Dilates on the Human Side of "His Worship, the Chief Justice," and his Fellow Dogs._ The group about the blazing logs was enriched this afternoon by a new member. Lonnegan had brought his dog, a big white and yellow St. Bernard, fluffy as a girl's muff, a huge, splendid fellow, who answered with great dignity and with considerable condescension to the name of "Chief," an abbreviation of "His Worship, the Chief Justice." No other name would have suited him. Grave, dignified, wide-browed, with deep, thoughtful eyes; ponderous of form, slow in his movements, keeping perfectly still minutes at a time, he needed only a wig and a pair of big-bowed spectacles to make him the fitting occupant of any bench. Mac put his arm around Chief's neck before His Worship had fully made up his mind as to where on the Daghestan rug he would place his august person.