This tune was more beautiful than all, and Lin lost himself in it, until he found Billy recalling him with a finger upon the words, the concluding ones: 

   “And the whole world sent back the song
    Which now the angels sing.”

The music rose and descended to its lovely and simple end; and, for a second time in Denver, Lin brushed a hand across his eyes.  He turned his face from his neighbor, frowning crossly; and since the heart has reasons which Reason does not know, he seemed to himself a fool; but when the service was over and he came out, he repeated again, “’Peace and good-will.’  When I run on to the Bishop of Wyoming I’ll tell him if he’ll preach on them words I’ll be there.”

“Couldn’t we shoot your pistol now?” asked Billy.

“Sure, boy.  Ain’t yu’ hungry, though?”

“No.  I wish we were away off up there.  Don’t you?”

“The mountains?  They look pretty, so white!  A heap better ’n houses.  Why, we’ll go there!  There’s trains to Golden.  We’ll shoot around among the foothills.”

To Golden they immediately went, and after a meal there, wandered in the open country until the cartridges were gone, the sun was low, and Billy was walked off his young heels—­a truth he learned complete in one horrid moment, and battled to conceal.

“Lame!” he echoed, angrily.  “I ain’t.”

“Shucks!” said Lin, after the next ten steps.  “You are, and both feet.”

“Tell you, there’s stones here, an’ I’m just a-skipping them.”

Lin, briefly, took the boy in his arms and carried him to Golden.  “I’m played out myself,” he said, sitting in the hotel and looking lugubriously at Billy on a bed.  “And I ain’t fit to have charge of a hog.”  He came and put his hand on the boy’s head.

“I’m not sick,” said the cripple.  “I tell you I’m bully.  You wait an’ see me eat dinner.”

But Lin had hot water and cold water and salt, and was an hour upon his knees bathing the hot feet.  And then Billy could not eat dinner!

There was a doctor in Golden; but in spite of his light prescription and most reasonable observations, Mr. McLean passed a foolish night of vigil, while Billy slept, quite well at first, and, as the hours passed, better and better.  In the morning he was entirely brisk, though stiff.

“I couldn’t work quick to-day,” he said.  “But I guess one day won’t lose me my trade.”

“How d’ yu’ mean?” asked Lin.

“Why, I’ve got regulars, you know.  Sidney Ellis an’ Pete Goode has theirs, an’ we don’t cut each other.  I’ve got Mr. Daniels an’ Mr. Fisher an’ lots, an’ if you lived in Denver I’d shine your boots every day for nothing.  I wished you lived in Denver.”

“Shine my boots?  Yu’ll never!  And yu’ don’t black Daniels or Fisher, or any of the outfit.”

“Why, I’m doing first-rate,” said Billy, surprised at the swearing into which Mr. McLean now burst.  “An’ I ain’t big enough to get to make money at any other job.”