e idea, son!" agreed Mr. Shrimplin genially.

And he slid down into the bed of the brook where he struggled to get the
injured man to his feet. The first and immediate result of his effort
was that the latter swore fiercely at him, though in a whisper.

"We got to get you out of this, mister!" said the little lamplighter
apologetically.

A second attempt was made in which they were aided by Custer from above,
and this time the injured man was drawn to the top of the bank, where
he collapsed in a heap.

"He's fainted!" said Custer. "Strike a match and see who it is!"

Mr. Shrimplin obeyed, bringing the light close to the bloody and
disfigured face.

"Why, it's Marsh Langham!" he cried.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

FAITH IS RESTORED

"Custer--" began Mr. Shrimplin, and paused to clear his throat. He was
walking beside wild Bill's head while Custer in the cart tried to
support Langham, for the latter had not regained consciousness. "Custer,
I'm mighty well satisfied with you; I may say that while I always been
proud of you, I am prouder this moment than I ever hoped to be! How many
boys in Mount Hope, do you think, would have the nerve to do what you
just done? I love nerve," concluded Mr. Shrimplin with generous
enthusiasm.

But Custer was silent, a sense of bitter shame kept him mute.

"Custer," said his father, in a timidly propitiatory tone, "I hope you
ain't feeling stuck-up about this!"

"I wish it had never happened!" The boy spoke in an angry whisper.

"You wish what had never happened, Custer?"

"About you--I mean!"

Shrimplin gave a hollow little laugh.

"Well, and what about me, son--if I may be allowed to ask?"

"I wish you'd gone down to the crick bank like I wanted you to!"
rejoined the boy.

Again he felt the hot tears gather, and drew the back of his hand across
his eyes. The little lamplighter had been wishing this, too; indeed, it
would for ever remain one of the griefs of his life that he had not done
so. He wondered miserably if the old faith would ever renew itself. His
portion in life was the deadly commonplace, but Custer's belief had
given him hours of high fellowship with heroes and warriors; it had also
ministered to the bloody-mindedness which lay somewhere back of that
quaking fear constitutional with him, and which he could no more control
than he could control his hunger or thirst. His blinking eyelids loosed
a solitary drop of moisture that slid out to the tip of his