"At that old Pipes—I'd thought he were gone—layin back in his chair, ead all anyhow:—
"'Jack,' he says usky, 'is that the Genelman?'
"'May the Lord ave mercy on im!' I cries. 'It's im. He's dyin for us, Mr.
Piper—dyin slow.'
"'So did Jesus,' says he, calm as you please.
"'But can't we do nothin, my God?' I cries.
"'Nothin,' says he, sleepy-like. 'I'm dyin; you're done. God is our ope and strength.'
"'Can't you pray, Mr. Piper?' I begs him. 'You're a good un at that. Ave a go at em,' I says. 'Maybe they'd listen to you. Sure-ly they can't set by and see a genelman like that chaw'd up in cold blood.'
"He didn't answer. But I could see his head pitch forward a bit. And I hears a kind of a mutter.
"Then he stops, and I could see he were listenin,
"'Go it, Mr. Piper,' I says. 'Go it. Pitch it in. You're workin em. Pray! pray! pray!'