“Well, why don’t you call upon God to help you?” says he.  “He has helped you a lot in the past, hasn’t he, Roy?  And He has helped her a lot, hasn’t he?  Helped her to stand me.  Oh, that’s a joke!  The just and merciful One—­d’you remember how old Baintree used to rant?  You approved, didn’t you.  You agreed with old Baintree.  So did I, Roy, to his face.

“But you—­why you were a damned Puritan, Roy.  You wouldn’t do this, you wouldn’t do that, you would be clean of vice—­your very words, Roy!—­and you would be honest and just with men.  That’s the sort of thing that paid, says you.

“And didn’t it pay you, though!  Ho, ho; it’s too rich, Roy!  You would make yourself as good a man as old Baintree; you would make yourself worthy of his daughter.  Remember telling me that?  And didn’t you, though—­with my help!  My help, Roy—­not God’s!  It was Black Angus and the Devil did it!

“Well, well, I thought I would surprise you with my little tale of how I used the Twigg girl to spoil your chance with Mary.  But Beasley surprised you instead.  Didn’t he, now?  A neat trick, eh, Roy?  You never guessed?

“You never guessed, either, all that I had planned for you that time.  If you hadn’t been in such a hurry to leave town!  But then—­I was just as well pleased.  With Beulah out of the way as well as you—­it was plain sailing with Mary, Roy.

“No, I never wanted Mary.  Not for herself.  She’s not my kind, Roy; a damned, sniveling saint isn’t my idea of a woman.  But I wanted her money.  Old Baintree’s money.  And I got it.

“I got Baintree, too.  It was necessary; I had to kill the old fool.  He knew too much about me, and if he told Mary—­well, I was playing the saint with her, just then.  He would never have consented to her marrying me; and also—­the money, you know.  So I eliminated him, Roy.  And God let you suffer for what I did!  Ho, ho, that’s rich, isn’t it?  Come to think of it, it’s sound theology—­vicarious atonement, eh?  You got stripes, and I got Mary—­and her money, which I have spent most pleasurably.

“But you were always a fool, Roy—­a stupid, trusting fool.  You trusted me, didn’t you?  I was your bosom friend, your boyhood chum, whose wild ways grieved you.  Fool, fool, if you had possessed the wit of a jackass you would have known I hated you!  Hate, hate, hate!  I have hated you all my life, Roy!  I hated you when we were boys and you made me take second place.  I have hated you ever since; I hate you now—­so much it is almost love, Roy!  Eh, but I never love.  I hate.  And when I hate—­I hurt!”

To all this tirade Newman returned no answer.  He did not seem to hear.  He hung silent in his bonds, his head on his breast and his face hidden.  He might have been unconscious.  I thought he was, for he did not even look up when the captain was excitedly chanting his hate.  Swope was plainly piqued at this indifference; he got up from his keg and stepped close to Newman.