“Oh, I see; well, I can’t help that, kin I?  I wus raised down in Mississip’, an’ run away when I wus fourteen.  I’ve been a driftin’ ‘long ever since.  I reckon my face ain’t goin’ ter hurt none so long as the pay is right.”

“No, I reckon maybe it won’t.  I’ve seed sum baby faces in my time thet sure hed the devil behind ’em.  Whut’s yer name?”

“Moffett—­Dan Moffett.”

He fell silent, and I was unpleasantly aware of his continued scrutiny, my heart beating fiercely, as I endeavored to force down more of the food as an excuse to remain at the table.  What would he decide?  I dared not glance up, and for the moment every hope seemed to die within me; shaving had evidently been a most serious mistake.  Finally he spoke once more, but gruffly enough, leaning forward, and lowering his voice to a hoarse whisper.

“Wal’ now see yere, Moffett, I’m goin’ fer ter be damn plain with yer.  I’m a plain man myself, an’ don’t never beat about no bush.  I reckon yer whut yer say ye are, fer thar ain’t no reason, fer as I kin see, why we should lie ‘bout it.  Yer flat broke, an’ need coin, an’ I’m takin’ at yer own word—­thet ye don’t care overly much how ye git it.  Thet true?”

“Just ‘bout—­so it ain’t no hangin’ job.”

“Hell, thar ain’t really no manner o’ risk at all.  Yer don’t even hav’ ter break the law fer as I know.  It’s just got fer ter be done on the dead quiet, an’ no question asked.  Now look yere,” and he glared at me fiercely, a table knife gripped in one hand.  “I’m sum wildcat whin I onct git riled, an’ if yer play any dirt I’ll sure take it out’r yer hide if I’m ten years a findin’ yer.  Yer don’t want’r try playin’ no tricks on Jack Rale.”

“Who’s a playin’ any tricks?” I protested, indignantly.  “Whatever I says I’ll do, an’ thar won’t be no talkin’ ’bout it nether.  So whut’s the job?  This yere Kirby matter?”

He nodded sullenly, a bit regretful that he had gone so far I imagined, and with another cautious glance about the room.

“I’ll tell yer all ye need ter know,” he began. “’Tain’t such a long story.  This yere Joe Kirby he’s a frien’ o’ mine; I’ve know’d him a long time, an’ he’s in a hell of a fix.  He told me ‘bout it comin’ up on the boat, an’, betwixt us, we sort’r fixed up a way ter stack ther cards.  Here’s how it all happened:  Thar wus an ol’ planter livin’ down in Missoury at a place called Beaucaire’s Landin’.  His name wus Beaucaire, an’ he hed a son named Bert, a damn good-fer-nuthing cuss, I reckon.  Wal’ this Bert runned away a long while ago, an’ never cum back; but he left a baby behind him—­a gurl baby—­which a quadroon slave give birth too.  The quadroon’s name wus Delia, an’ the kid wus called Rene.  Git them names in yer head.  Ol’ Beaucaire he knew the gurl wus his son’s baby, so he brought her up ’long with his own daughter, who wus named Eloise.  They wus both ‘bout ther same age, an’ nobody seemed ter know thet Rene