“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?”

“Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody 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 passed 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 circumstances?”

“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?”