From these muttered imprecations I guessed that Joe was his partner in the crime, and went for him as soon as Jim was locked up. An ordinary thief would have betrayed his pal at once after such dastardly treatment, but, as I have indicated, there was about Jim a kind of manliness which scorned such a mean revenge. He remained absolutely silent regarding Joe’s complicity, and, as that rascal was cunning enough to take care of himself, we had no evidence against him, and he was released. In order to have his sentence shortened Jim pleaded guilty, and got off with eighteen months’ imprisonment. “When your term is up, Jim, go for a soldier,” I whispered to him as he was led down stairs. “Maybe I will—it depends,” he grimly answered with set teeth, and so he disappeared for a year and a half’s moody reflection. When the time came for his release he was fearfully excited for a little over the fact that his beloved knife could not be found among his treasures. “My knife! my knife! I must have my knife!” he feverishly exclaimed, and he absolutely refused to stir out of the prison till he got it. When it was found and placed in his hands he appeared exuberantly happy, and as impatient for liberty as he had before been reluctant to leave. At the gate, his mother, as usual, was there to receive him, but she found him a good deal changed. He was moody and strange, except when questioning her regarding Joe Knevitt. The little she knew of his old pal was eagerly devoured, but beyond that he had little to say. At home his first task was to get out his knife and grind its edge to a razor-like keenness. His mother noticed the fact, and fancied that he appeared specially careful with the point, but the only answer she got was—