the shock of black hair, with a
startling luster and brilliancy.

I do not know what pain he suffered. I do not know what magic medicine
gave him the strength to smile at us, dying as he was even then.

"Well, what do you know about little Paul Dombey?" he piped in a high,
thin voice. The shock of relief was too much. We giggled hysterically,
then stopped short and looked at each other, like scared and naughty
children.

"Sa-a-ay, boys and girls, cut out the heavy thinking parts. Don't make
me do all the social stunts. What's the news? What kind of a rotten
cotton sportin' sheet is that dub Callahan gettin' out? Who won
to-day--Cubs or Pirates? Norberg, you goat, who pinned that purple tie
on you?"

He was so like the Blackie we had always known that we were at our ease
immediately. The sun shone in at the window, and some one laughed a
little laugh somewhere down the corridor, and Deming, who is Irish,
plunged into a droll description of a brand-new office boy who had
arrived that day.

"S'elp me, Black, the kid wears spectacles and a Norfolk suit, and
low-cut shoes with bows on 'em. On the square he does. Looks like one of
those Boston infants you see in the comic papers. I don't believe he's
real. We're saving him until you get back, if the kids in the alley
don't chew him up before that time."

An almost imperceptible shade passed over Blackie's face. He closed his
eyes for a moment. Without their light his countenance was ashen, and
awful.

A nurse in stripes and cap appeared in the doorway. She looked keenly at
the little figure in the bed. Then she turned to us.

"You must go now," she said. "You were just to see him for a minute or
two, you know."

Blackie summoned the wan ghost of a smile to his lips. "Guess you guys
ain't got th' stimulatin' effect that a bunch of live wires ought to
have. Say, Norberg, tell that fathead, Callahan, if he don't keep the
third drawer t' the right in my desk locked, th' office kids'll swipe
all the roller rink passes surest thing you know."

"I'll--tell him, Black," stammered Norberg, and turned away.

They said good-by, awkwardly enough. Not one of them that did not owe
him an unpayable debt of gratitude. Not one that had not the memory of
some secret kindness stored away in his heart. It was Blackie who had
furnished the money that had sent Deming's sick wife west. It had
been Blackie who had rescued Schmidt time and again when drink got a
strangle-hold. Blackie