anything I can get for you, or do for you, old chap?" inquired
Tom, coming out on the porch after supper and looking remarkably
comfortable and contented.

"No; just let me doze," begged Harry. "I feel a trifle drowsy."

"Then, if you're going to give a concert through your nose," smiled Tom,
"I may as well protect myself by going some distance away."

"Go along."

"I believe I'll take a walk. Probably, too, the ice cream man will be
richer when I get back."

Tom went down into the street and sauntered along. He had walked but a
few blocks when he met another young man in white ducks.

"Doc, I'm looking for the place where the ice cream flows," Reade
hinted. "Can I tempt you?"

"Without half trying," laughed Dr. Furniss the young physician who had
gone out to camp to attend the Man-killer victim.

As they were seated together over their ice cream, Dr. Furniss inquired:

"By the way, do you ever see my one-time patient nowadays?"

"The fellow we exhumed from the Man-killer?"

"The same."

"I see him every morning," laughed Tom. "Really, I can't help seeing
him, for the man puts himself in my way daily to say good morning. And
as yet I haven't learned his name."

"His name is Tim Griggs," replied Dr. Furniss. "He's a fine fellow, too,
in his rough, manly way. He's wonderfully grateful to you, Reade. Do you
know why?"

"Haven't an idea."

"Well, Tim's sheet anchor in life is a little girl."

"Sweetheart?"

"After a fashion," laughed the young doctor. "The girl is his daughter,
eight years old. She's everything to Tim, for his wife is dead. The
child lives with somewhat distant relatives, in a New England town.
Tim sends all his spare money to her, and so the child is probably well
looked after. Tim told me, with a big choke in his voice, that, if the
Man-killer had swallowed him up, it would have been all up with the
little girl, too. When money stopped coming the relatives would probably
have set the child to being household drudge for the family. Tim has a
round dozen of different photos of the child taken at various times."

"Then I'm extra glad we got him out of the Man-killer," said Tom rather
huskily.

"I knew you'd be glad, Reade. You're that kind of fellow."

"Tim Griggs, then, is probably one of our steady men," Tom remarked,
after a while.

"Steady! Why the man generally sends all of his month's pay, except
about eight dollars, to his daughter. From what he tells me she is
a sharp, th