“Sam Sleeny,” said Offitt, in an impressive voice, “I’m one of the kind that stands by my friends.  If you mean what you have been saying to me, I’ll go up with you this very night, and we will together take it out of that aristocrat.  Now, that’s business.”

Sleeny looked at his friend in surprise and with some distrust.  The offer was so generous and reckless, that he could not help asking himself what was its motive.  He looked so long and so stupidly at Offitt, that the latter at last divined his feeling.  He thought that, without telling Sleeny the whole scheme, he would test him one step farther.

“I don’t doubt,” he said carelessly, “but what we could pay ourselves well for the job,—­spoil the ’Gyptians, you know,—­forage on the enemy.  Plenty of portables in them houses, eh!”

“I never said”—­Sam spoke slowly and deliberately—­“I wanted to ’sassinate him, or rob him, or burgle him.  If I could catch him and lick him, in a fair fight, I’d do it; and I wouldn’t care how hard I hit him, or what with.”

“All right,” said Offitt, curtly.  “You met him once in a fair fight, and he licked you.  And you tried him another way,—­courtin’ the same girl,—­and he beat you there.  But it’s all right.  I’ve got nothin’ against him, if you hain’t.  Lemme mark your name on this hammer,” and, turning the conversation so quickly that Sleeny had no opportunity to resent the last taunt, he took his knife and began dexterously and swiftly to cut Sam’s initials in the handle of his hammer.  Before, however, he had half completed his self-imposed task, he exclaimed, “This is dry work.  Let’s go out and get some beer.  I’ll finish your hammer and bring it around after supper.”

“There’s one S on it,” said Sam; “that’s enough.”

“One S enough!  It might mean Smith, or Schneider, or Sullivan.  No, sir.  I’ll put two on in the highest style of art, and then everybody will know and respect Sam Sleeny’s tool.”

They passed out of the room together, and drank their beer at a neighboring garden.  They were both rather silent and preoccupied.  As they parted, Offitt said, “I’ve got a scheme on hand for raising the wind, I want to talk to you about.  Be at my room to-night between nine and ten, and wait till I come, if I am out.  Don’t fail.”  Sam stared a little, but promised, asking no questions.

When Offitt came back, he locked the door again behind him.  He bustled about the room as if preparing to move.  He had little to pack; a few shabby clothes were thrown into a small trunk, a pile of letters and papers were hastily torn up and pitched into the untidy grate.  All this while he muttered to himself as if to keep himself in company.  He said:  “I had to take the other shoot—­he hadn’t the sand to help—­I couldn’t tell him any more. . . .  I wonder if she will go with me when I come tonight—­ready?  I shall feel I deserve her anyhow.  She don’t treat me as she did him, according to Sam’s