Joe was greatly troubled. His chest heaved, and the tears came to his eyes.

"I'd do more than that for you, Joe, and you know it."

Joe knew it. They were crossing the old goldfield now.
There was a shaft close to the path; it had fallen in,
funnel-shaped, at the top, but was still thirty or forty feet deep;
some old logs were jammed across about five feet down.
Joe suddenly snatched the note from his pocket and threw it in.
It fluttered to the other side and rested on a piece of the old timber.
Bill saw it, but said nothing, and, seeing their father coming home from work,
they hurried on.

Joe was deep in trouble now. Bill tried to comfort and cheer him,
but it was no use. Bill promised never to run away from home any more,
to go to school every day, and never to fight, or steal, or tell lies.
But Joe had betrayed his trust for the first time in his life,
and wouldn't be comforted.

Some time in the night Bill woke, and found Joe sitting up in bed crying.

"Why, what's the matter, Joe?"

"I never done a mean thing like that before," sobbed Joe. "I wished
I'd chucked meself down the shaft instead. The master trusted me, Will;
an' now, if he asks me to-morrow, I'll have to tell a lie."

"Then tell the truth, Joe, an' take the hidin'; it'll soon be over --
just a couple of cuts with the cane and it'll be all over."