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penny to the thin man and poured from the jug into the cup. There was a gurgle or two and the jug was empty. The cup was but half full.

“’T is not full measure,” he muttered, “but let it be.” He emptied the cup and wiped his lips.

“Now,” said the thin man, his face by this time fully as red as his fellow’s, “where ’s thy store of silver? Count and share, count and share.”

“Thou hast it, pence and pounds.”

Martin’s eyes half closed and his head nodded. Breathing hard, he sat down beside the road.

“Nay, th’ art drunk. Come, now, thy purse and a just division.” Out of a fog of wild notions the befuddled thin man had pitched upon this alone, that Martin withheld from him their common profit from their adventure into trade. He had keen mind and strong will, and his head had long resisted the assaults of the wine; but wine is a cunning, powerful foe and not easily discouraged, which by sapping and mining can accomplish the fall of the tallest citadel; and now, although steadier on his feet, the fellow was nearly as drunk as his mate and in no condition to perceive the flaw in his own logic.

To all this Martin gave no heed at all. He covered his eyes with his hands and uttering a prolonged groan, cried thickly,—apparently to Phil,—“And did you ever see a man dance on air! Ah, a hanging is a sight to catch the breath in your throat and make an emptiness in a man’s belly!”

“Tush!” the thin man cried. Leaning over Martin he thrust his hands into pocket, pouch and bosom. “Where hast thou hid it?” he fiercely whispered.

Martin tried to stand and fell weakly back, but slapped the thin man across the face as he did so.