"Maybe I will—I don't know and I am not going to promise. But I am sick enough of being here, among such rough men as Sack Todd and Gasper Pold and that crowd of counterfeiters that was captured. I haven't had any real comfort for months."
"I don't believe a criminal ever feels real comfortable," said Tom. "How can he, when he knows the officers of the law are constantly after him?"
"There is something in that. When I go to bed I generally dream of being caught and dragged to prison. And those men always wanted me to drink, and I don't care much for liquor."
"Then cut it out—cut it out by all means," said Dick. "You can't do better."
"And there is another thing," went on Dan Baxter. "I don't feel well—everything I eat lately goes against me, and sometimes I'm in a regular fever. I ought to rest somewhere, I suppose, and have a good doctor attend me. But I can't do anything to make me feel better chasing around like this."
After that Dan Baxter told a good deal more about himself—how he had been knocking around in all sorts of questionable places and how the dissipation had grown very distasteful to him. It had certainly ruined his health, and his eyes
