th his study of the landscape. After which he said:
"Well, I must be moving. Good night to you."

"So you're off your sleep, too, are you?" As often happens, the impulse
to speak was a joint one. The words collided.

Instinctively Mahony shrank into himself; this familiar bracketing of
his person with another's was distasteful to him. Besides, the man who
had sprung up at his elbow bore a reputation that was none of the best.
The owner of a small chemist's shop on the Flat, he contrived to give
offence in sundry ways: he was irreligious--an infidel, his neighbours
had it--and of a Sabbath would scour his premises or hoe potatoes
rather than attend church or chapel. Though not a confirmed drunkard,
he had been seen to stagger in the street, and be unable to answer when
spoken to. Also, the woman with whom he lived was not generally
believed to be his lawful wife. Hence the public fought shy of his
nostrums; and it was a standing riddle how he managed to avoid putting
up his shutters. More nefarious practices no doubt, said the relentless
VOX POPULI.--Seen near at hand, he was a tall, haggard-looking fellow
of some forty years of age, the muscles on his neck standing out like
those of a skinny old horse.

Here, his gratuitous assumption of a common bond drew a cold: "Pray,
what reason have you to think that?" from Mahony. And without waiting
for a reply he again said good night and turned to go.

The man accepted the rebuff with a meekness that was painful to see.
"Thought, comin' on you like this, you were a case like my own. No
offence, I'm sure," he said humbly. It was evident he was well used to
getting the cold shoulder. Mahony stayed his steps. "What's the matter
with you?" he asked. "Aren't you well? There's a remedy to be found for
most ills under the sun."

"Not for mine! The doctor isn't born or the drug discovered that could
cure me."

The tone of bragging bitterness grated anew. Himself given to the vice
of overstatement, Mahony had small mercy on it in others. "Tut, tut!"
he deprecated.

There was a brief silence before the speaker went on more quietly:
"You're a young man, doctor, I'm an old one." And he looked old as he
spoke; Mahony saw that he had erred in putting him down as merely
elderly. He was old and grey and down-at-heel--fifty, if a day--and his
clothes hung loose on his bony frame. "You'll excuse me if I say I know
better'n you. When a man's done, he's done. And that's me. Yes,"--he
grew