in' 'bout between New Orleans an' Saint Louee,
steamboatin' mostly. Thet sort o' thing don't make no saint out'r eny
kin'd man, I reckon. What sort'r job is it?"

He eyed me cautiously, as though not altogether devoid of suspicion.

"Yer don't somehow look just the same sort o' chap, with them ther'
whiskers shaved off," he acknowledged soberly. "Yer a hell sight
better lookin' then I thought yer wus, an' a damn sight younger. Whar
wus it yer cum frum?"

"Frum Saint Louee, on the boat, if thet's what yer drivin' at."

"Tain't what I'm drivin' at. Whar else did yer cum frum afore then?
Yer ain't got no bum's face."

"Oh, I see; well, I can't help that, kin I? I wus raised down in
Mississip', an' run away when I wus fourteen. I've been a driftin'
'long ever since. I reckon my face ain't goin' ter hurt none so long
as the pay is right."

"No, I reckon maybe it won't. I've seed sum baby faces in my time thet
sure hed the devil behind 'em. Whut's yer name?"

"Moffett--Dan Moffett."

He fell silent, and I was unpleasantly aware of his continued scrutiny,
my heart beating fiercely, as I endeavored to force down more of the
food as an excuse to remain at the table. What would he decide? I
dared not glance up, and for the moment every hope seemed to die within
me; shaving had evidently been a most serious mistake. Finally he
spoke once more, but gruffly enough, leaning forward, and lowering his
voice to a hoarse whisper.

"Wal' now see yere, Moffett, I'm goin' fer ter be damn plain with yer.
I'm a plain man myself, an' don't never beat about no bush. I reckon
yer whut yer say ye are, fer thar ain't no reason, fer as I kin see,
why we should lie 'bout it. Yer flat broke, an' need coin, an' I'm
takin' at yer own word--thet ye don't care overly much how ye git it.
Thet true?"

"Just 'bout--so it ain't no hangin' job."

"Hell, thar ain't really no manner o' risk at all. Yer don't even hav'
ter break the law fer as I know. It's just got fer ter be done on the
dead quiet, an' no question asked. Now look yere," and he glared at me
fiercely, a table knife gripped in one hand. "I'm sum wildcat whin I
onct git riled, an' if yer play any dirt I'll sure take it out'r yer
hide if I'm ten years a findin' yer. Yer don't want'r try playin' no
tricks on Jack Rale."

"Who's a playin' any tricks?" I protested, indignantly. "Whatever I
says I'll do, an' thar won't be no talkin' 'bout it nether. So whut's
the jo