During the progress of the story the narrator had become
transfigured. The comic, or rather, the sardonic element was all out
of him, and as he painted that strange scene it was with difficulty
that I kept my composure. And this consummate actor had somehow so
managed me that the sympathy due to his dramatis persone was given to
himself. I stepped forward to grasp his hand, when suddenly a broad
grin danced across his face and with a light, mocking laugh he
continued:

"W'en W'isky got 'is nut out o' that 'e was a sight to see! All his
fine clothes--he dressed mighty blindin' those days--were spoiled
everlastin'! 'Is hair was towsled and his face--what I could see of
it--was whiter than the ace of lilies. 'E stared once at me, and
looked away as if I didn't count; an' then there were shootin' pains
chasin' one another from my bitten finger into my head, and it was
Gopher to the dark. That's why I wasn't at the inquest."

"But why did you hold your tongue afterward?" I asked.

"It's that kind of tongue," he replied, and not another word would he
say about it.

"After that W'isky took to drinkin' harder an' harder, and was
rabider an' rabider anti-coolie, but I don't think 'e was ever
particularly glad that 'e dispelled Ah Wee. He didn't put on so much
dog about it w'en we were alone as w'en he had the ear of a derned
Spectacular Extravaganza like you. 'E put up that headstone and
gouged the inscription accordin' to his varyin' moods. It took 'im
three weeks, workin' between drinks. I gouged his in one day."