"I know you would, I know you would," interrupted the woman between
sobs, "and he asked so many times for you, and now to think that you are
here and he won't know you. Oh, my poor Tom!"

"I don't blame you for being proud, Bob. I wish I had such a case too,
but then I couldn't handle it not the way you could, Bob. None of the
fellers could, not one of 'em, Bob, for you do everything in such a
grand way, you know."

These words, so familiar yet so ominously strange, fell upon Bob Hunter
like a messenger of death.

"Oh, what is it, Mrs. Flannery? What has happened to Tom?" cried he,
pale with fright.

"It's his head, Master Bob--gone since morning--rambling on just like
this--detectives, and I don't know what all."

"Have you had a doctor to see him?" asked Bob, his mind turning quickly
to practical measures.

"Yes, and he says it's pneumonia, and a very bad case," answered the
mother, with almost a hopeless expression.

Bob learned that Tom came home two days before thoroughly wet from a
cold northeast rain; that he had a chill soon after going to bed; that
he grew rapidly worse throughout the night, and that in the morning he
had a high fever. Mrs. Flannery called in a doctor, who, after a careful
examination, pronounced the case pneumonia. He left medicine which
seemed to afford temporary relief. In the night, however, Tom grew
worse, and during the following forenoon became delirious.

"Don't you know me, Tom?" said Bob feelingly, as he stood by the
bedside, and held the sufferer's hand in his own.

"All the evening papers--_Sun_, _Mail and Express_, _Telegram_--big
accident--tremendous loss of life! Which will you have, sir?"

And this was Tom's wild reply, poor boy. Now that his companion, whom he
wanted to see so much, and for whom he had such admiration, had at last
come to him, the sick boy did not know him; but supposing he had a
customer for his papers, he rattled on in true newsboy fashion. Bob
tried again and again to rouse his mind by referring to Herbert
Randolph, and to scenes familiar and interesting, but his efforts were
unsuccessful. At length his stout young heart gave way, and with an
expression of the keenest grief he dropped into a chair beside the bed,
burying his face in the pure white spread that covered his young
companion, and wept tears of sincere sorrow.

[Illustration: TOM FLANNERY IN DELIRIUM.]

Presently he withdrew from the sick room, and after a brief discussion
with