Then he wint tramping round, looking for some place to find his way out, and kept it up till he made up his mind it was no use Then he acted like a gintleman who prefarred to be shot to starving, and, finding nobody around to 'tend to the business, done it himself." "Can't we bury him, Mickey ?" "He's buried already." The Irishman meant nothing especial in his reply, but there was a deep significance about it which sent a shudder through his hearer from head to foot.

Yes, the stranger was buried, and in the same grave with him were Mickey O'Rooney and Fred Munson.
The speaker saw the effect his words had produced, and attempted to remove their sting.
"It looks very much to me as if the man had n't done anything but thramp, thramp, without thrying any way of getting out, and then had keeled over and give up." "What could he do, Mickey ?" "Could n't he have jumped into the stream, and made a dive?
He stood a chance of coming up outside, and if he had n't, he would have been as well off as he is now." "Is that what _you_ mean to do ?" "I will, before I'd give up as he did; but it's meself that thinks there's some other way of finding our way.

Bring me gun along, and come with me!" Mickey carried the torch, because he wished to use it himself.

He led the way back to where the stream disappeared from view, and there he made another careful examination, his purpose being different from what it had been in the first place.

He stooped over and peered at the dark walls, noting the width of the stream and the contour of the bank, as well as the level of the land on the right.