AS THEY entered the place Billy, who was ahead, sought a table; but as he was about to hang up his cap and seat himself Bridge touched his elbow.

“Let\'s go to the washroom and clean up a bit,” he said, in a voice that might be heard by those nearest.

“Why, we just washed before we left our room,” expostulated Billy.

“Shut up and follow me,” Bridge whispered into his ear.

Immediately Billy was all suspicion. His hand flew to the pocket in which the gun of the deputy sheriff still rested. They would never take him alive, of that Billy was positive. He wouldn\'t go back to life imprisonment, not after he had tasted the sweet freedom of the wide spaces—such a freedom as the trammeled city cannot offer.

Bridge saw the movement.

“Cut it,” he whispered, “and follow me, as I tell you. I just saw a Chicago dick across the street. He may not have seen you, but it looked almighty like it. He\'ll be down here in about two seconds now. Come on—we\'ll beat it through the rear—I know the way.”

Billy Byrne heaved a great sigh of relief. Suddenly he was almost reconciled to the thought of capture, for in the instant he had realized that it had not been so much his freedom that he had dreaded to lose as his faith in the companion in whom he had believed.

Without sign of haste the two walked the length of the room and disappeared through the doorway leading into the washroom. Before them was a window opening upon a squalid back yard. The building stood upon a hillside, so that while the entrance to the eating-place was below the level of the street in front, its rear was flush with the ground.

Bridge motioned Billy to climb through the window while he shot the bolt upon the inside of the door leading back into the restaurant. A moment later he followed the fugitive, and then took the lead.

Down narrow, dirty alleys, and through litter-piled back yards he made his way, while Billy followed at his heels. Dusk was gathering, and before they had gone far darkness came.

They neither paused nor spoke until they had left the business portion of the city behind and were well out of the zone of bright lights. Bridge was the first to break the silence.

“I suppose you wonder how I knew,” he said.

“No,” replied Billy. “I seen that clipping you got in your pocket—it fell out on the floor when you took your coat off in the room this afternoon to go and wash.”

“Oh,” said Bridge, “I see. Well, as far as I\'m concerned that\'s the end of it—we won\'t mention it again, old man. I don\'t need to tell you that I\'m for you.”

“No, not after tonight,” Billy assured him.

They went on again for some little time without speaking, then Billy said:

“I got two things to tell you. The first is that after I seen that newspaper article in your clothes I thought you was figurin\' on double-crossin\' me an\' claimin\' the five hun. I ought to of known better. The other is that I didn\'t kill Schneider. I wasn\'t near his place that night—an\' that\'s straight.”

“I\'m glad you told me both,” said Bridge. “I think we\'ll understand each other better after this—we\'re each runnin\' away from something. We\'ll run together, eh?” and he extended his hand. “In flannel shirt from earth\'s clean dirt, here, pal, is my calloused hand!” he quoted, laughing.

Billy took the other\'s hand. He noticed that Bridge hadn\'t said what HE was running away from. Billy wondered; but asked no questions.

South they went after they had left the city behind, out into the sweet and silent darkness of the country. During the night they crossed the line into Kansas, and morning found them in a beautiful, hilly country to which all thoughts of cities, crime, and police seemed so utterly foreign that Billy could scarce believe that only a few hours before a Chicago detective had been less than a hundred feet from him.

The new sun burst upon them as they topped a grassy hill. The dew-bespangled blades scintillated beneath the gorgeous rays which would presently sweep them away again into the nothingness from which they had sprung.

Bridge halted and stretched himself. He threw his head back and let the warm sun beat down upon his bronzed face.

  There\'s sunshine in the heart of me,
  My blood sings in the breeze;
  The mountains are a part of me,
  I\'m fellow to the trees.
  My golden youth I\'m squandering,
  Sun-libertine am I,
  A-wandering, a-wandering,
  Until the day I die.

And then he stood for minutes drinking in deep breaths of the pure, sweet air of the new day. Beside him, a head taller, savagely strong, stood Billy Byrne, his broad shoulders squared, his great chest expanding as he inhaled.

“It\'s great, ain\'t it?” he said, at last. “I never knew the country was like this, an\' I don\'t know that I ever would have known it if it hadn\'t been for those poet guys you\'re always spouting.

“I always had an idea they was sissy fellows,” he went on; “but a guy can\'t be a sissy an\' think the thoughts they musta thought to write stuff that sends the blood chasin\' through a feller like he\'d had a drink on an empty stomach.

“I used to think everybody was a sissy who wasn\'t a tough guy. I was a tough guy all right, an\' I was mighty proud of it. I ain\'t any more an\' haven\'t been for a long time; but before I took a tumble to myself I\'d have hated you, Bridge. I\'d a-hated your fine talk, an\' your poetry, an\' the thing about you that makes you hate to touch a guy for a hand-out.

“I\'d a-hated myself if I\'d thought that I could ever talk mushy like I am now. Gee, Bridge, but I was the limit! A girl—a nice girl—called me a mucker once, an\' a coward. I was both; but I had the reputation of bein\' the toughest guy on the West Side, an\' I thought I was a man. I nearly poked her face for her—think of it, Bridge! I nearly did; but something stopped me—something held my hand from it, an\' lately I\'ve liked to think that maybe what stopped me was something in me that had always been there—something decent that was really a part of me. I hate to think that I was such a beast at heart as I acted like all my life up to that minute. I began to change then. It was mighty slow, an\' I\'m still a roughneck; but I\'m gettin\' on. She helped me most, of course, an\' now you\'re helpin\' me a lot, too—you an\' your poetry stuff. If some dick don\'t get me I may get to be a human bein\' before I die.”

Bridge laughed.

“It IS odd,” he said, “how our viewpoints change with changed environment and the passing of the years. Time was, Billy, when I\'d have hated you as much as you would have hated me. I don\'t know that I should have said hate, for that is not exactly the word. It was more contempt that I felt for men whom I considered as not belonging upon that intellectual or social plane to which I considered I had been born.

“I thought of people who moved outside my limited sphere as \'the great unwashed.\' I pitied them, and I honestly believe now that in the bottom of my heart I considered them of different clay than I, and with souls, if they possessed such things, about on a par with the souls of sheep and cows.

“I couldn\'t have seen the man in you, Billy, then, any more than you could have seen the man in me. I have learned much since then, though I still stick to a part of my original articles of faith—I do believe that all men are not equal; and I know that there are a great many more with whom I would not pal than there are those with whom I would.

“Because one man speaks better English than another, or has read more and remembers it, only makes him a better man in that particular respect. I think none the less of you because you can\'t quote Browning or Shakespeare—the thing that counts is that you can appreciate, as I do, Service and Kipling and Knibbs.

“Now maybe we are both wrong—maybe Knibbs and Kipling and Service didn\'t write poetry, and some people will say as much; but whatever it is it gets you and me in the s............