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 Ay! him in the Hill, an’ me outside,—we ain’t very far apart; For the shade o’ you shadows my eyes, old Hill, and the weight o’ you wears my heart. I struck but the once; for twenty year you’ve held my neck to the knife. Whether you tell in the end or not,—ain’t he had his “life for a life”?

..Was that a shake?....Thank God, it wasn’t! Shakes turn me silly wi’ fright, For then’s your chance, if you’ve got a grudge, to spit him up into the light. Well, what if you did, eh? Whiles I fancy hangin’ could be no worse.... Dunno if you been my best o’ friends all the while, or my bitterest curse.

Here’s the way-out, now—over the Point, where the sea-birds swing an’ dive; The Hill ’ud be hidden....an’ what do I get, anyway, by bein’ alive? Jump over, and finish it!.... Can’t! I can’t! I’ve never had pluck to tell; I haven’t the pluck to hurry that smallest o’ steps—from here to Hell.

Well, some day it’ll finish itself. I’ve written it all, so then Everybody on earth ’ll know; but I shall ha’ done wi’ men. Poor old Jack, an’ his Maker to face....but—one bit o’ the torment past: No Hill!—all, everythin’, known, an’ open, an’ public, thank God, at last!