“And succeeded?”

“Yes; he made a big haul.  This time he has met his deserts.”

There were no further incidents that deserve recording in Andy’s journey.  It is needless to say that he enjoyed it.  The scenes through which he passed were new and strange to him.  It was a country he had never expected to see, and for this reason, perhaps, he enjoyed it the more.

At last he reached Tacoma.  It was irregularly built on a hillside.  There were no buildings of any pretensions.  All its importance was to come.

He put up at the Tacoma House, a hotel of moderate size, and after dinner he went out to see the town.  He sought out the plot of lots owned jointly by Mr. Crawford and himself, and found that they were located not far from the center of the business portion of the town.

It took no sagacity to foresee that the land would rise in value rapidly, especially after the Northern Pacific Railroad was completed.

In the afternoon, feeling tired, he sat in his room and read a book he had picked up at a periodical store—­a book treating of the great Northwest.  The partitions were thin, and noises in the adjoining room were easily audible.

His attention was drawn to a sound of coughing, and a groan indicating pain.  It was evident that the next apartment was occupied by a sick man.

Andy’s sympathies were excited.  It seemed to be a forlorn position to be sick and without attention in this remote quarter.  After a moment’s hesitation he left his own room and knocked at the other door.

“Come in!” was the reply, in a hollow voice.

Andy opened the door and entered.

On the bed lay a man, advanced in years, with hollow cheeks and every appearance of serious illness.

“I am afraid you are very sick,” said Andy, gently.

“Yes; I have an attack of grip.  I am afraid I will have to pass in my checks.”

“Oh, it isn’t as bad as that,” said Andy, in a reassuring tone.  “Have you no one to take care of you?”

“No; everybody here is occupied with schemes for money-making.  I can’t get any one to look after me for love or money.”

“Then you have no near friend or relative in Tacoma?”

“No; nor, I may say, anywhere else.  I have a niece, however, in Syracuse.  She is at school.  She is the only tie, the only one on whom I have any claim.”

“If you need money—­” began Andy, feeling a little delicate about offering pecuniary assistance.

“No, I have no need of that kind.  I suppose I look poor, for I never cared about my personal appearance, but I am one of the largest owners of real estate in Tacoma, besides having some thousands of dollars in a San Francisco bank.  But what good will it all do me?  Here I am, sick, and perhaps near death.”

“I will do what I can for you,” said Andy.  “I am myself a visitor in Tacoma.  I came on business for a New York gentleman.  I am authorized to buy lots in Tacoma.  When you are better, I will make you an offer for your land, if you care to sell.”