He was a mighty liar, but I did not know that; I believed everything he said.

He was a romantic, sentimental, melodramatic fraud, and his bearing impressed me with awe.

I vividly remember the first time he took me into his confidence.

He was planing a board, and every now and then he would pause and heave a deep sigh; and occasionally mutter broken sentences-- confused and not intelligible--but out of their midst an ejaculation sometimes escaped which made me shiver and did me good: one was, 'O God, it is his blood!' I sat on the tool-chest and humbly and shudderingly admired him; for I judged he was full of crime.

At last he said in a low voice-- 'My little friend, can you keep a secret ?' I eagerly said I could.
'A dark and dreadful one ?' I satisfied him on that point.
'Then I will tell you some passages in my history; for oh, I MUST relieve my burdened soul, or I shall die!' He cautioned me once more to be 'as silent as the grave;' then he told me he was a 'red-handed murderer.' He put down his plane, held his hands out before him, contemplated them sadly, and said-- 'Look--with these hands I have taken the lives of thirty human beings!' The effect which this had upon me was an inspiration to him, and he turned himself loose upon his subject with interest and energy.