"Poor boy!" she exclaimed half-pityingly, half-admiringly. "You put
your hands to a job you know nothing about, when Henry Wilton couldn't
carry it with all his wits about him."
"I didn't do it," said I sullenly. "It has done itself. Everybody
insists that I'm Wilton. If I'm to have my throat slit for him I might
as well try to do his work. I wish to Heaven I knew what it was,
though."
Mother Borton leaned her head on her hand, and gazed on me thoughtfully
for a full minute.
"Young man," said she impressively, "take my advice. There's a train
for the East in the mornin'. Just git on board, and never you stop
short of Chicago."
"I'm not running away," said I bitterly. "I've got a score to settle
with the man who killed Henry Wilton. When that score is settled, I'll
go to Chicago or anywhere else. Until that's done, I stay where I can
settle it."
Mother Borton caught up the candle and moved it back and forth before
my face. In her eyes there was a gleam of savage pleasure.
"By God, he's in earnest!" she said to herself, with a strange laugh.
"Tell me again of the man you saw in the alley."
I described Doddridge Knapp.
"And you are going to get even with _him_?" she said with a
chuckle that had no mirth in it.
"Yes," said I shortly.
"Why, if you should touch him the people of the city would tear you to
pieces."
"I shall not touch him. I'm no assassin!" I exclaimed indignantly. "The
law shall take him, and I'll see him hanged as high as Haman.
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