heart," said the Butcher. "Instead
of drilling that devil, Nulty, when he had the chance, Nulty filled
Spud full of holes, an' we fluked up--yer gettin' a bit of my wrist,
Dook, with that damned file. Well, as I said, I thought me luck was
out fer keeps--an' _you_ show up. Gee! Who'd have thought of seein'
de Angel Dook, de prize penman, de gem of forgers! How'd you make yer
getaway--you was in fer twenty spaces, wasn't you?"

"I think they wanted to save the expense of burying me," said P.
Walton. "The other wrist, Butch. I got a pardon."

"What's de matter with you, Dook?" inquired the Butcher solicitously.

"Lungs," said P. Walton tersely. "Bad."

"Hell!" said the Butcher earnestly.

There was silence for a moment, save only for the rasping of the file,
and then the Butcher spoke again.

"What's yer lay out here, Dook?" he asked.

"Working for the railroad in the super's office--and keeping my mouth
shut," said P. Walton.

"There's nothin' in that," said the Butcher profoundly. "Nothin' to
it!"

"Not much," agreed P. Walton. "Forty a month, and--oh, well, forty a
month."

"I'll fix that fer you, Dook," said the Butcher cheerily. "You join de
gang. There's de old crowd from Joliet up here in de mountains. We
got a swell layout. There's Larry, an' Big Tom, an' Dago Pete--Spud's
cashed in--an' they'll stand on their heads an' yell Salvation Army
songs when they hear that de slickest of 'em all--that's you, Dook--is
buyin' a stack an' settin' in."

"No," said P. Walton. "No, Butch, I guess not--it's me for the forty
per."

"Eh!" ejaculated the Butcher heavily. "You don't mean to say you've
turned parson, Dook? You wouldn't be lettin' me loose if you had."

"No; nothing like that," replied P. Walton. "I'm sitting tight because
I have to--until some one turns up and gives my record away--if I'm not
dead first. I'm too sick, Butch, to be any use to you--I couldn't
stand the pace."

"Sure, you could," said the Butcher reassuringly. "Anyway, I'm not fer
leavin' a pal out in de cold, an'----" He stopped suddenly, and leaned
toward P. Walton. "What was it you said you was doin' in de office?"
he demanded excitedly.

"Assistant clerk to the superintendent," said P. Walton--and his file
bit through the second link. "You'll have to get the bracelets off
your wrists when you get back to the boys--your hands are free."

"Say," said the Butcher breathlessly, "it's a cinch! You see de
lett