They had him cold!
There was no use in trying to think of a way out of his difficulty.
All he wanted now was to rest, a chance to pull himself together. After
all was said and done, what were a few years in the penitentiary?
He was young. Five years--even ten,--what were they at his time
of life? He would be thirty-five, at the most forty, when he came
out, and as fit as he was when he went in.
"It was all my fault anyway," he reflected bitterly. "If I had let
Madge alone I--Oh,--what's the use belly-aching now! That's all
over,--and here am I, paying pretty blamed dearly for a month's
pleasure. They've got me. There's no way out of it now. Jail!
Well, worse things could happen than that. What will mother think?
I suppose it will hurt like the devil. But she could have fixed
this if she'd loosened up a bit. She could have gone to Washington
as I told her to do and--hell, it wouldn't have cost her half as
much as it will to defend me in court. She can't get a decent lawyer
under--well, God knows how many thousands."
He sat up and unbuttoned his overcoat in order to feel of the spot
where the stone had struck him. He winced a little. After a moment's
reflection he drew a box of matches from his pocket.
"No harm in striking a match now," he chattered aloud. "I may as
well see what sort of a place it is."
He crawled farther back in the cave, out of the wind, and struck
a match.
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