Stop worrying about it." "Well," and Harry stood watching a moment as Taylor Bill began the writing of his confession, "it's such a relief to get four charges off my mind, that I did n't want to worry about any more.

Make hit fulsome, Bill--tell just 'ow you did it!" And Taylor Bill, bloody, eyes black, lips bruised, obeyed.

Fairchild took the bescrawled paper and wrote his name as a witness, then handed it to Harry and Anita for their signatures.

At last, he placed it in his pocket and faced the dolorous high-jacker.
"What else do you know, Bill ?" "About what?
Rodaine?
Nothing---except that we were in cahoots on this cross-cut.

There is n't any use denying it"-- there had come to the surface the inherent honor that is in every metal miner, a stalwartness that may lie dormant, but that, sooner or later, must rise.