’"Not a doit more than I wanted,” says he, laughing again.  “And who, pray, had a better right—­did not I murder him?”

’His talk and his laughing frightened me more and more.

’"Well, I stood to you then, Sir; didn’t I?” says Glascock.

’"Heart of oak, Sir—­true as steel; and now, how much do you want? 
Remember, ’tis all I have—­and I out at elbows; and here’s my friend
Irons, too—­eh?”

’"I want nothing, and I’ll take nothing,” says I; “not a shilling—­not a half-penny.”  You see there was something told me no good would come of it, and I was frightened besides.

’"What! you won’t go in for a share, Irons?” says he.

’"No; ’tis your money, Sir—­I’ve no right to a sixpence—­and I won’t have it,” says I; “and there’s an end.”

’"Well, Glascock, what say you?—­you hear Irons.”

’"Let Irons speak for himself—­he’s nothing to me.  You should have considered me when all that money was took from Mr. Beauclerc—­one done as much as another—­and if ’twas no more than holding my tongue, still ’tis worth a deal to you.”

’"I don’t deny—­a deal—­everything.  Come—­there’s sixty pounds here—­but, mark, ’tis all I have—­how much?”

’"I’ll have thirty, and I’ll take no less,” says Glascock, surly enough.

’"Thirty! ’tis a good deal—­but all considered—­perhaps not too much,” says Mr. Archer.

‘And with that he took his right hand from his breeches’ pocket, and shot him through the heart with a pistol.

’Neither word, nor stir, nor groan, did Glascock make; but with a sort of a jerk, flat on his back he fell, with his head on the verge of the tarn.

’I believe I said something—­I don’t know—­I was almost as dead as himself—­for I did not think anything that bad was near at all.

’"Come, Irons—­what ails you—­steady, Sir—­lend me a hand, and you’ll take no harm.”

’He had the pistol he discharged in his left hand by this time, and a loaded one in his right.

’"’Tis his own act, Irons. I did not want it; but I’ll protect myself, and won’t hold my life on ransom, at the hands of a Jew or a Judas,” said he, smiling through his black hair, as white as a tombstone.

’"I am neither,” says I.

’"I know it,” says he; “and so you’re here, and he there.”

’"Well, ’tis over now, I suppose,” says I. I was thinking of making off.

’"Don’t go yet,” says he, like a man asking a favour; but he lifted the pistol an inch or two, with a jerk of his wrist, “you must help me to hide away this dead fool.”

’Well, Sir, we had three or four hours cold work of it—­we tied stones in his clothes, and sunk him close under the bank, and walled him over with more.  ’Twas no light job, I can tell you the water was near four feet deep, though ’twas a dry season; and then we slipped out a handsome slice of the bank over him; and, making him all smooth, we left him to take his chance; and I never heard any talk of a body being found there; and I suppose he’s now where we left him.’