“‘Then,’ says I, ‘God help you, Jim!’
“He come close t’ me, sir, jus’ like he used t’ do, when he was a lad, in trouble.
“‘Keep off, Jim!’ says I.
“‘Why so?’ says he. ‘Isn’t you goin’ t’ be friends ’ith me any more?’
“I was afraid. ‘Keep clear!’ says I.
“‘I—I—don’t know!’ says I. ‘God help us all, I don’t know!’
“Then he falled prone, sir, an’ rolled over on his back, with his arms flung out, as if now he seed the blood on his hands; an’ he squirmed in the snow, sir, like a worm on a hook. ‘I wisht I hadn’t done it! Oh, dear God,’ says he, ‘I wisht I hadn’t done it!’
“Ah, poor little Jimmie Tool!