Shoot me."
It was a most unpleasant situation. Van Bibber felt the pistol
loosening in his hand, and he was conscious of a strong inclination to
lay it down and ask the burglar to tell him all about it.
"You haven't got much heart," said Van Bibber, finally. "You're a
pretty poor sort of a burglar, I should say."
"What's the use?" said the man, fiercely. "I won't go back--I won't go
back there alive. I've served my time forever in that hole. If I have
to go back again--s'help me if I don't do for a keeper and die for it.
But I won't serve there no more."
"Go back where?" asked Van Bibber, gently, and greatly interested; "to
prison?"
"To prison, yes!" cried the man, hoarsely: "to a grave. That's where.
Look at my face," he said, "and look at my hair. That ought to tell
you where I've been. With all the color gone out of my skin, and all
the life out of my legs. You needn't be afraid of me. I couldn't hurt
you if I wanted to. I'm a skeleton and a baby, I am. I couldn't kill a
cat. And now you're going to send me back again for another lifetime.
For twenty years, this time, into that cold, forsaken hole, and after
I done my time so well and worked so hard." Van Bibber shifted the
pistol from one hand to the other and eyed his prisoner doubtfully.
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