anyone for advice. You will pardon me, I am sure"--here he became
singularly persuasive--"but I have ventured to nail that pigtail
fast, and have assumed the somewhat onerous obligation of guarding
it. So it is quite impossible to act on your considerate suggestion.

"Do you play me for a Modoc?"

Nothing could exceed the sudden ferocity with which he thrust this
indignant remonstrance into the ear of his guest. It was as if he
had struck him on the side of the head with a steel gauntlet. It was
a protest, but it was a challenge. To be mistaken for a coward--to
be played for a Modoc: these two expressions are one. Sometimes it
is a Chinaman. Do you play me for a Chinaman? is a question
frequently addressed to the ear of the suddenly dead.

Mr. Beeson's buffet produced no effect, and after a moment's pause,
during which the wind thundered in the chimney like the sound of
clods upon a coffin, he resumed:

"But, as you say, it is wearing me out. I feel that the life of the
last two years has been a mistake--a mistake that corrects itself;
you see how. The grave! No; there is no one to dig it. The ground
is frozen, too. But you are very welcome. You may say at Bentley's-
-but that is not important. It was very tough to cut: they braid
silk into their pigtails. Kwaagh."

Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and he wandered. His
last word was a snore. A moment later he drew a long breath, opened
his eyes with an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep
sleep. What he said was this: