“Be you goin’ t’ give me the money as you promised?” he asked, looking at Smythe and pointing to the bills.
“As soon as you confess that you were lying when you said I hinted anything to you.”
“Course I was lyin’,” said Amos with a leer. “You never told me t’ do nuthin’. You hear me, Watson,” he cried, “Smythe thar never told me what I said he did; I were lyin’.”
“Heaven forgive you, as I do,” murmured Smythe.
“Gimme the money,” cried Amos. “I promise to get across the border right smart.”
“I think,” said Smythe, taking the greenbacks from Watson’s hand and counting them slowly, “I think we had better give you the money, Amos—all but the sixty dollars coming to me for three months’ board, and allow you to go in hiding in the cellar again. When the dear Colonel comes, which I am sure he will very soon now, you will wait until he has left for Bushwhackers’ Place, then you will bid good-by to this place forever. No one will miss you, Amos, because you have no friends—but that is your own fault. You will always have a troubled conscience for a companion, but that is also your own fault. Remember, if you are caught——”
Mr. Smythe slipped his long fingers about his thin neck and winked his watery eyes.
“If you are caught, it’s all up with you, Amos.”
Broadcrook arose, his gaunt face twitching.
“Gimme another drink and I’ll go down in my hole again,” he said hoarsely. “You call me arter Hallibut has been here and gone. I wanter get away inter the States. You’ll let me have a rifle, won’t you, men?” he begged. “I’m scart o’ the wolves—they’ve been bad this winter.”