In his soul the little missioner was praying. He knew that Kent's
religion was not his religion, and he did not press the service
which he would otherwise have rendered. After a moment he rose to
his feet, and it was the old Kent who looked up into his face, the
clean-faced, gray-eyed, unafraid Kent, smiling in the old way.

"I have one big favor to ask of you, Father," he said. "If I've
got a day to live, I don't want every one forcing the fact on me
that I'm dying. If I've any friends left, I want them to come in
and see me, and talk, and crack jokes. I want to smoke my pipe.
I'll appreciate a box of cigars if you'll send 'em up. Cardigan
can't object now. Will you arrange these things for me? They'll
listen to you--and please shove my cot a little nearer the window
before you go."

Father Layonne performed the service in silence. Then at last the
yearning overcame him to have the soul speak out, that his God
might be more merciful, and he said: "My boy, you are sorry? You
repent that you killed John Barkley?"

"No, I'm not sorry. It had to be done. And please don't forget the
cigars, will you, Father?"

"No, I won't forget," said the little missioner, and turned away.

As the door opened and closed behind him, the flash of humor
leaped into Kent's eyes again, and he chuckled even as he wiped
another of the telltale stains of blood from his lips. He had
played the game. And the funny part about it was that no one in