Three days later French came forth from his room, haggard and trembling, to find every bottle empty, Mackenzie making ineffective attempts to prepare a meal, and Kalman nowhere to be seen.

“Where is the boy?” he enquired of Mackenzie in an uncertain voice.

“I know not,” said Mackenzie.

“Go and look for him, then, you idiot!”

In a short time French was summoned by Mackenzie’s voice.

“Come here, will you?” he was crying.  “Come here and see this thing.”

With a dread of some nameless horror in his heart, French hurried toward the little knoll upon which Mackenzie stood.  From this vantage ground could be seen far off in the potato field the figure of the boy with two or three women, all busy with the potatoes.

“What do you make that out to be?” enquired French. 
“Who in the mischief are they?  Go and see.”

It was not long before Mackenzie stood before his master with Kalman by his side.

“As sure as death,” said Mackenzie, “he has a tribe of Galician women yonder, and the pitaties iss all in.”

“What do you say?” stammered French.

“It iss what I am telling you.  The pitaties iss all in, and this lad iss bossing the job, and the Galician women working like naygurs.”

“What does this mean?” said French, turning his eyes slowly upon Kalman.  The boy looked older by years.  He was worn and haggard.

“I saw a woman passing, she was a Galician, she brought the others, and the potatoes are done.  They have come here two days.  But,” said the boy slowly, “there is nothing to eat.”

With a mighty oath French sprang to his feet.

“Do you tell me you are hungry, boy?” he roared.

“I could not find much,” said Kalman, his lip trembling in spite of himself.

“What are you standing there for, Mackenzie?” roared French.  “Confound you for a drunken dog!  Confound us both for two drunken fools!  Get something to eat!”

There was something so terrible in his look and in his voice that Mackenzie fairly ran to obey his order.  Kalman stood before his master pale and shaking.  He was weak from lack of food, but more from anxiety and grief.

“I did the best I could,” he said, struggling manfully to keep his voice steady, “and—­I am—­awful glad—­you’re—­better.”  His command was all gone.  He threw himself upon the grass while sobs shook his frame.

French stood a moment looking down upon him, his face revealing thoughts and feelings none too pleasant.

“Kalman, you’re a good sort,” he said in a hoarse voice.  “You’re a man, by Jove! and,” in an undertone, “I’m hanged, if I don’t think you’ll make a man of me yet.”  Then kneeling by his side, he raised him in his arms.  “Kalman,” he said, “you are a brick and a gentleman.  I have been a brute and a cad.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” sobbed the boy.  “You are a good man.  But I wish—­you would—­leave—­it—­alone.”