"Dead sure."
"Say, boss, I'd 'a' hate to done you up. But ther' was the money, an'—I wanted it bad."
"Sure you did. You see we all want a heap the good God don't reckon good for us——"
The man's eyes suddenly closed while Dave was speaking. Then they opened again, and this time they were staring wildly.
"I'm—goin'," he gasped.
Dave was on his knees in a second, supporting his head. He poured some brandy into the gasping mouth, and for a brief moment the man rallied. Then his breathing suddenly became violent.
"I'm—done!" he gasped in a final effort, and a moment later the supporting hand felt the lead-like weight of the lolling head. The man was dead.
The lumberman reverently laid the head back upon the rugs, and for some minutes remained where he was kneeling. His rough, plain face was buried in his hands. Then he rose to his feet and stood looking down upon the lifeless form. A great pity welled up in his heart. Poor Mansell was beyond the reach of a hard fate, beyond the reach of earthly temptation and the hard knocks of men. And he felt it were better so. He covered the body carefully over with the fur robe, and sat down at his desk.
He sat there for some minutes listening to the sounds of the workers at the mills. He was weary—so weary. But at last he could resist the call no longer, and he went out to join in the labor that was his very life.