"I'm dead sorry for you, lad," said Harding with slow fervent utterance. "You've been spending your life in getting trash like that"—he waved his hand toward the paper. "And now you've got to die, and go before God. He'll be sorry for you too. If I'm sorry, a man like me, what must God's sorrow be for such a life as yours has been! Don't think about that hateful money, lad. Let it lie where you've laid it if you like."
Harding took the paper up and thrust it back into the man's fingers as he said:
"Tear it up. But you've got a chance to show you're ashamed for what you've done. Give the money back to those you stole it from. 'Tis all you can do now to make amends."
The man gazed irresolutely at him.
"You talk mighty fine, but what's to hinder you grabbin' the whole blessed lot?"
"Nothing."
That single word said everything. Dearing stared fixedly at Harding for a moment, and then thrust the paper into his hand.
"Here, take it," he said. "And if there's anything good you've got to say to me, let's hear it. I'll listen to you, old man. You act up to what you talk of."