way south of the Tweed; but at the distance of six or seven thousand miles Great Britain, though never diminished, looks foreshortened enough even to its own children to rob such details of their importance.  Stein was excusable, and his hinted intentions were so generous that I begged him most earnestly to keep them secret for a time.  I felt that no consideration of personal advantage should be allowed to influence Jim; that not even the risk of such influence should be run.  We had to deal with another sort of reality.  He wanted a refuge, and a refuge at the cost of danger should be offered him—­nothing more.

’Upon every other point I was perfectly frank with him, and I even (as I believed at the time) exaggerated the danger of the undertaking.  As a matter of fact I did not do it justice; his first day in Patusan was nearly his last—­would have been his last if he had not been so reckless or so hard on himself and had condescended to load that revolver.  I remember, as I unfolded our precious scheme for his retreat, how his stubborn but weary resignation was gradually replaced by surprise, interest, wonder, and by boyish eagerness.  This was a chance he had been dreaming of.  He couldn’t think how he merited that I . . .  He would be shot if he could see to what he owed . . .  And it was Stein, Stein the merchant, who . . . but of course it was me he had to . . .  I cut him short.  He was not articulate, and his gratitude caused me inexplicable pain.  I told him that if he owed this chance to any one especially, it was to an old Scot of whom he had never heard, who had died many years ago, of whom little was remembered besides a roaring voice and a rough sort of honesty.  There was really no one to receive his thanks.  Stein was passing on to a young man the help he had received in his own young days, and I had done no more than to mention his name.  Upon this he coloured, and, twisting a bit of paper in his fingers, he remarked bashfully that I had always trusted him.

’I admitted that such was the case, and added after a pause that I wished he had been able to follow my example.  “You think I don’t?” he asked uneasily, and remarked in a mutter that one had to get some sort of show first; then brightening up, and in a loud voice he protested he would give me no occasion to regret my confidence, which—­which . . .

’"Do not misapprehend,” I interrupted.  “It is not in your power to make me regret anything.”  There would be no regrets; but if there were, it would be altogether my own affair:  on the other hand, I wished him to understand clearly that this arrangement, this—­this—­experiment, was his own doing; he was responsible for it and no one else.  “Why?  Why,” he stammered, “this is the very thing that I . . .”  I begged him not to be dense, and he looked more puzzled than ever.  He was in a fair way to make life intolerable to himself . . .  “Do you think so?” he asked, disturbed; but in a moment added confidently,