o tell," went on the skeleton in his awful voice.
"I've had quite a life. A full life. I've taken my fun and my pleasure
wherever I could. Maybe you'll call me selfish and greedy, but I always
used to believe that a man only passed this way once. Just like you
believe," he nodded to me, his neck muscles and jaws creaking. "Six
years ago I came up into this country and got a job on a farm," he went
on, settling into his story. "Just an ordinary job. But I liked it
because the farmer had a pretty little daughter of about sixteen or
seventeen and as easy as could be. You may not believe it, but you can
still find dames green enough to fall for the right story.

"This one did. I told her I was only out there for a time for my health.
That I was rich back in the city, with a fine home and everything. She
believed me. Little fool!" He chuckled as he said it, and my anger,
mounting with his every devilish word, made the finger on the trigger in
my pocket take a tighter crook to itself. "I asked her to skip with me,"
the droning went on, "made her a lot of great promises, and she fell for
it." His dry jaw bones clanked and chattered as if he enjoyed the
beastly recital of his achievement, while we sat gaping at him,
believing either that the man must be mad, or that we were the mad ones,
or dreaming.

"We slipped away one night," continued the beast. "Went to the city. To
a punk hotel. For three weeks we stayed there. Then one morning I told
her I was going out for a shave. I was. I got the shave. But I hadn't
thought it worth while to tell her I wouldn't be back. Well, she got
back to the farm some way, though I don't know--"

* * * * *

"What!" I shouted, springing before him. "What! You mean you left her
there! After you'd taken her, you left her! And here you sit crowing
over it! Gloating! Boasting! Why you--!" I lived in a rough country.
Associated with rough men, heard their vicious language, but seldom used
a strong word myself. But as I stood over that monster, utterly hating
the beastly thing, all the vile oaths and prickly language of the
countryside, no doubt buried in some unused cell in my brain, spilled
from my tongue upon him. When I had lashed him as fiercely as I was able
I cried: "Why don't you come at me? Didn't you hear what I called you?
You beast! I'd like to riddle you!" I shouted, drawing my gun.

"Aw, sit down!" he jeered, waving his rattling hand at me. "You ain't
he