"What d'you say?"

"Little Sissy Leadham is dying."

For my life I could not determine whether the news moved him or not.

"Wal?"

"And she's asking for you."

"Askin'--fer me?"

At last I had gripped his attention and interest.

"Why?"

"She wants to give you her money."

"Then it wa'n't a plant? 'Twa'n't fixed up atween you boys an' her?"

"It was her own idea--an idea so strong that it has taken possession of her poor wandering wits altogether."

"Is that so?" He moistened his lips. "And you--ye've come up here to ask me to go down there, into that p'isonous Paradise, because a little girl who ain't nothin' to me wants to give me three dollars and a half?"

"If you get there in time it may save her life."

"An' s'pose I lose mine--hey?"

I shrugged my shoulders. He stared at me as if I were a strange animal, clicking his teeth and twisting his fingers.

"Look ye here," he burst out, angrily, with a curious note of surprise and petulance in his voice, "you an' that brother o' yours know me, old Pap Spooner, purty doggoned well. Hev ye heard anyone ever speak a good word fer me?"

"No one except--the schoolmarm."

"An' what did she say?"

"She reckoned you must have thought the world of your own little girl."

He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--

"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?-- that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin'

me--hey?"

"n.o.body laughs in Paradise now, and n.o.body except my brother, the doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."

"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."

We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap and I pa.s.sed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried forward.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never seen before.

"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"

"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come under such circ.u.mstances?"

"Is there much danger?" said Pap, anxiously.

"The child is as ill as she can be."

"I meant fer--me."

"Great Scot! If you feel like that you'd better not go in." His tone was dully contemptuous.

"Wal--I do feel like that, on'y more so; an' I'm goin' in all the same. Reckon I'm braver'n you, 'cause you ain't skeered."

We entered the room. George Leadham was sitting by the bed. When he saw us he bent over the flushed face on the pillow, and said, slowly and distinctly: "Here's Mr. Spooner, my pretty; he's come. Do you hear?"

She heard perfectly. In a thick, choked voice she said: "Is that you, Pap?"

"It's me," he replied; "it's me, sure enough."

"Why, so'tis. Popsy, where's my money?"

"Here, Sissy, right here."

She extended a thin, wasted hand.

"I want you to have it, Pap," she said, speaking very slowly, but in a clearer tone. "You see, it's like this. I've got the diptheery, an'

I'm a-goin' to die. I don't need the money--see! And you do, you pore old Pap, so you must take it."

Pap took the money in silence. George Leadham had turned aside, unable to speak. I stood behind the door, out of sight. Sissy stared anxiously at Pap.

"Popsy said you wouldn't come, but I knew you would," she sighed.

"Good-bye, you pore old Pap." She closed her eyes, but she held Pap's hand. The young doctor came forward with his finger upon his lips.

Quietly, he signed to Pap to leave the room; the old man shook his head. The doctor beckoned the father and me out on to the porch.

"Miracles sometimes happen," said he, gravely. "The child has fallen into a natural sleep."

But not for three hours did her grip relax of Pap's hand, and he sat beside her patiently, refusing to budge. Who shall say what was pa.s.sing in his mind, so long absorbed in itself, and now, if one could judge by his face, absorbed at last in this child?

When he came out of the room he spoke to the doctor in a new voice.

"If she wants anything--anything, you understan'--you get it--see?"

"Certainly."