ing
could save him from himself, and after the funeral Slavin went to his
bar and drank whisky as he had never drunk before. But the more he drank
the fiercer and gloomier he became, and when the men drinking with him
chaffed him, he swore deeply and with such threats that they left him
alone.

It did not help Slavin either to have Nixon stride in through the crowd
drinking at his bar and give him words of warning.

'It is not your fault, Slavin,' he said in slow, cool voice, 'that you
and your precious crew didn't sent me to my death, too. You've won your
bet, but I want to say, that next time, though you are seven to one, or
ten times that, when any of you boys offer me a drink I'll take you to
mean fight, and I'll not disappoint you, and some one will be killed,'
and so saying he strode out again, leaving a mean-looking crowd of men
behind him. All who had not been concerned in the business at Nixon's
shack expressed approval of his position, and hoped he would 'see it
through.'

But the impression of Nixon's words upon Slavin was as nothing compared
with that made by Geordie Crawford. It was not what he said so much
as the manner of awful solemnity he carried. Geordie was struggling
conscientiously to keep his promise to 'not be 'ard on the boys,' and
found considerable relief in remembering that he had agreed 'to leave
them tae the Almichty.' But the manner of leaving them was so solemnly
awful, that I could not wonder that Slavin's superstitious Irish nature
supplied him with supernatural terrors. It was the second day after the
funeral that Geordie and I were walking towards Slavin's. There was a
great shout of laughter as we drew near.

Geordie stopped short, and saying, 'We'll juist gang in a meenute,'
passed through the crowd and up to the bar.

'Michael Slavin,' began Geordie, and the men stared in dead, silence,
with their glasses in their hands. 'Michael Slavin, a' promised the lad
a'd bear ye nae ill wull, but juist leave ye tae the Almichty; an' I
want tae tell ye that a'm keepin' ma wur-r-d. But'--and here he raised
his hand, and his voice became preternaturally solemn--'his bluid is
upon yer han's. Do ye no' see it?'

His voice rose sharply, and as he pointed, Slavin instinctively glanced
at his hands, and Geordie added--

'Ay, and the Lord will require it o' you and yer hoose.'

They told me that Slavin shivered as if taken with ague after Geordie
went out, and though he laughed and swore, he