"If you would do anything," pleaded the Jackleg, "to show good intention, turn over to me any papers you may have, no matter how worthless—notes, or—or certificates!"
Pete pulled out his wallet. Lungy turned pale.
"Take dis," said Pete. "Dis bane order fer six dollar Yohn Yohnson's wages. Ay bane gude fallar!"
"Thanks!" said the Jackleg, pious-like. "And is that long document the certificate of sale in Peterson vs. Golden Fountain, etc.?"
"Dat bane marryin' papers," said Pete. "Dat spine paper bane N. G. Mae spine all tem O. K. Dat leg-yerkin' bane yust effidence. Ay take spine paper to start camp-fire!"
It was as good as a play. Lungy turned pale and trembled. The lawyer went up in the air and told the sheriff to arrest Pete, and appealed to the widow to give up the certificate, and she got sore at Pete, and called him a Norwegian fool for burning it, and cuffed the bigger kid, which was more Irish-looking. Pete dug his toe into the ground and looked ashamed and mumbled something about it not being his spine. The sheriff told Pete to come along, and I asked him to show his warrant. He made a bluff at looking in his clothes for it, and rode away with his countenance tight-closed.
Lungy and I rode off the other way.
That night Lungy smiled weakly as I started the fire with paper.
"Bill," said he, "I shall never burn paper without thinking how near I came to paradise and dropped plump—"
"Oh, I forgot," said I. "Here's that certificate."