Just as they realized how close an escape they had, Slippery keeled over against Boston Frank and said hoarsely:  “Frank, for mercy’s sake take me where I can get a drink of water.  The fellow who fired at us from the first farm house hit his mark, for I am shot.”  “Slippery, old boy,” now queried Boston Frank, not believing that such a dire calamity had overtaken them, “you are joking, aren’t you?” And then, when Slippery did not answer, he looked into his pal’s face and saw there the pallor of death while two dark lines emerging from the corner of his mouth caused by the wounded man’s life blood, trickling away, proved to him that his comrade in crime had only too accurately spoken the bitter truth.  Now he coughed and when Boston Frank saw a stream of blood shoot out of the wounded man’s mouth and heard a choking noise in his throat, he readily recognized the nature of the hurt and that Slippery had been shot through his lungs.

Boston Frank in sheer desperation again urged the rapidly tiring horse to one last effort, but soon the best speed he could get out of the animal was a slow trot.  Again Slippery most piteously begged for a drink of water, and taking a desperate chance, when he saw in the darkness an open gate that led into a field, he guided the tired horse into it, and after Joe had closed the gate behind them he drove ahead until a thick thorn hedge stopped further progress.  Here they lifted the wounded man out of the buggy and laid him upon the ground.  He continued to plead most piteously for a cooling drink of water to appease his torturing fever thirst.  “Joe,” cautioned Boston Frank, after he had securely tied the horse to the hedge, “you take care of poor Slippery until I return with my derby filled with water, as I cannot bear to listen longer to the poor fellow’s heart-rending appeals.”  Then he disappeared into the night, resolved to find water at any price.

“Joe, Joe, come here, Joe,” the lad heard Slippery weakly calling a moment later, and he knelt beside the wounded man and asked him what he desired.  Just then Slippery could not answer, as he was again vomiting blood, and Joe tried to ease his breathing by elevating his head with boughs he broke from the hedge.

“Joe,” the wounded fellow called again, “where are you, Joe?” The boy placed his hand in the outstretched, searching hands of Slippery, who feebly pressed them with his own and said, “Joe, I know I am mortally wounded, and want you to make me, a dying man, a promise.  I meant to forsake crime and live the life of an honest man for your sake after we had successfully pulled off this job—­my last one.”  He paused a moment and then continued, “I took you with us, so when you and I went to your home in Rugby you would never forget that you had been my accomplice and would not be apt to peach on me.  I know that the wound I received is the just punishment for the greatest wrong mortal man can commit, that of leading a harmless boy astray.”