“Oh, nothing!  Must say, though, you gave me a twist when I came on you suddenly.  Maybe it’s your epigastric nerve; maybe it’s your liver and will pass off, but I’d knock off work for a day or two if I were you.”

Malone now took a hand.

“Let me carry yer kit, Joppy, ye look done up.  What’s happened to ye, man, since mornin’?”

“Never felt better in my life,” protested Joplin.  “No, I’ll carry it—­not heavy—­”

Then he quickened his pace—­they were all on their way back to the inn—­and overtook Stebbins and Schonholz.

“Stebbins, old man—­”

“Yes, Joppy.”

“What I told you last night is turning out just as I expected.  Heart’s been acting queer all morning and my epigastric nerve is very sensitive.  Puddy says I look awful.  Do you see it?”

Stebbins looked into the Bostonian’s face, hesitated, and said with an apologetic tone in his voice: 

“Well, everybody looks better one time than another.  You’ve been working too hard, maybe.”

“But do I look yellow?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Joppy, you do—­yellow as a gourd—­not always, just now and then when you walk fast or run upstairs.”

“I’ve been afraid of that.  Was my pulse all right when you counted it last night?”

“Yes, certainly—­skipped a beat now and then, but that’s nothing.  I had an uncle once who had a pulse that wobbled like that.  He, of course, went off suddenly; some said it was apoplexy; some said it was his heart—­these doctors never agree.  I wouldn’t worry about it, old man.  Hold on, Pudfut, don’t walk so fast.”

Pudfut held on, and so did Schonholz and Malone, and then the four slipped behind a pile of oil barrels and concentrated their slouch hats and Schonholz slapped his thigh and said with a smothered laugh that it was “sphlendeed!” and Malone and Pudfut agreed, and then the three locked arms and went singing up the street, their eyes on Joplin’s pipe-stem legs as he trotted beside Marny on his way to the inn.

When the party reached the coffee-room Marny called Tine to his side, spread out the fingers and thumb of one hand, and that rosy-cheeked lass without the loss of a second, clattered over to the little shelf, gathered up five empty mugs and disappeared down the cellar steps.  This done the coterie drew their chairs to one of Tine’s hand-scrubbed tables and sat down, all but Joplin, who kept on his way to his room.  There the Bostonian remained, gazing out of the window until Johann had banged twice on his door in announcement of dinner.  Then he joined the others.

When all were seated Schonholz made a statement which was followed with results more astounding to the peace of the coterie than anything which had occurred since the men came together.

“I haf bad news, boys,” he began, “offle bad news.  Mine fader has wrote dat home I must.  Nod anuder mark he say vill he gif me.  Eef I could sell somedings —­but dat ees very seldom.  No, Marny, you don’t can lend me noddings.  What vill yourselluf do?  Starve!”