I exclaim.
"For with you a tea-king, Tim, and I a lawyer, it would be just the
same, would it not?"

"That's just what I was trying to get at," says Tim. "Suppose that day
of the fox-hunt you had not carried Weston----"

I hold up my hand to check him.

"Were it to happen a hundred times over, I would take him to Mary's," I
cry. "Else he would have died."

"You are right, Mark," Tim says.

* * * * * *

I took Weston to Mary's house that day when I found him lying in the
charcoal clearing, with little Colonel standing over him wailing.
Tearing open his coat and shirt, I stanched his wound as best I could.
Then I called the others to me. Tip and Arnold picked him up and
carried him, while Murphy Kallaberger and I broke a path through the
bushes, and Aaron ran on to Warden's to tell them of the accident and
have them prepare for the wounded man. Warden's was the nearest house,
but that was a mile from the clearing, and in the woods our progress
was slow. Once free of the ridges and in the open fields the way was
easy, and Murphy could lend a hand to the others.

"He's monstrous light," Tip said. "He doesn't seem no more than skin
and bones in fancy rags."

It is strange how even our clothes go back on us when we are down.
Weston I had always known as a lanky man, but about his loosely fitting
garments there had been an air of careless distinction. Now that he
was broken, they hung with such an odd perversion as to bring from its
hiding-place every sharp angle in the thin frame. The best nine
tailors living could not have clothed him better for that little
journey, nor lessened a whit the pathos of the thin arms that lay
limply across the shoulders of Tip and Arnold.

"He's a livin' skelington," old Arker whispered, as I plodded along at
his side. "Poor devil!"

"Poor devil!" said I. For looking at the almost lifeless man I thought
of my own good fortune. This morning I had envied him. Now he had
nothing but his wealth, and his hold on that was weakening fast. I had
everything--life and health, home and friends--I had Mary. As we
parted a few minutes before, up there in the woods, I had pitied him.
He had seemed so lonely, so bitter in his loneliness, and yet at heart
so good. Now his eyes half opened as they carried him on, his glance
met mine in recognition, and it seemed to me that he smiled faintly.
But it was the same bitter smile. "Poor devil!" I said to myse