n' enough, they call 'em belles."

"Well this here mine 'at I'm goin' to tell you about was called the
Creole Belle," he sez. "For a longtime it didn't pay to amount to
anything, an' then it began to pay; an' the two friends got covetous,
an' first George had Jack killed an' then he gets killed himself by
Jack's--"

"No, he wasn't killed," I snaps in like a blame fool.

The old man looked at me with his little shiny eyes all scrouged up.
"Who wasn't killed?" he sez, slow an' cautious. "Why, George Jordan
wasn't killed," I sez.

"What would a kid like you know about it" sez he.

"Well, I do know 'at he wasn't killed," I sez. "I been workin' for him;
he don't live but a short way from here. Tell the the whole story. I'll
make it worth your while. Come on, what'll you have to drink?"

He leaned forward with his hand clutchin' at his side, an' his pink
checks gray an' twisted. He coughed a dry, short cough, an' groans out
between his set teeth. "It 's my heart; I got a bum pump. You tell
George Jordan that I never breathed a word of it, but that Jack
Whitman--Oh, my God! Get me a drink of whiskey! Get me a drink of
hell-fire!"

He doubled up, grabbin' an' clawin' at his breast while I jumped to the
bar yellin' for whiskey. I grabbed the bottle an' hustled back to him,
but he was all crumpled up on the floor. We straightened him out an'
rubbed his wrists an' poured whiskey down his throat, an' after a while
he opened his eyes. The minute his senses got back to him he clutched
at his heart again, rollin' an' writhin', an' makin' noises like a
wounded beast. "I knew it would end this way," he gasped. "I'm goin'
out now, but listen to what I say"--he helt his breath to keep from
coughin'--"the' ain't no sin but stealin'. Don't never take nothin'
that don't belong to ya."

All his muscles grew rigid an' twisted, an' then a smile came on his
face an' he sank back. They had the doctor there by that time, but the'
wasn't anything to be done, except to give a big heathen name to what
had been the matter with him. There he lay on the bar-room floor; the'
was filth an' refuse all around him, but the smile on his face was just
plumb satisfied, an' yet it was a knowledgeable smile too. I could 'a'
cried when I thought that this man, who could have told little Barbie
what she wanted to know, had wasted all that time tryin' to convince me
that business an' stealin' was all one. What he knew wouldn't do him a
mite o' good, wherev