“Eskew, Eskew!” remonstrated Peter Bradbury.  “You’d oughtn’t to talk that-a-way!  You only kind of overdone a little—­heat o’ the day, too, and—­”

“Peter,” interrupted the sick man, with feeble asperity, “did you ever manage to fool me in your life?”

“No, Eskew.”

“Well, you’re not doin’ it now!”

Two tears suddenly loosed themselves from Squire Buckalew’s eyelids, despite his hard endeavor to wink them away, and he turned from the bed too late to conceal what had happened.  “There ain’t any call to feel bad,” said Eskew.  “It might have happened any time—­in the night, maybe—­at my house—­and all alone—­but here’s Airie Tabor brought me to her own home and takin’ care of me.  I couldn’t ask any better way to go, could I?”

“I don’t know what we’ll do,” stammered the Colonel, “if you—­you talk about goin’ away from us, Eskew.  We—­we couldn’t get along—­”

“Well, sir, I’m almost kind of glad to think,” Mr. Arp murmured, between short struggles for breath, “that it ’ll be—­quieter—­on the—­“National House” corner!”

A moment later he called the doctor faintly and asked for a restorative.  “There,” he said, in a stronger voice and with a gleam of satisfaction in the vindication of his belief that he was dying.  “I was almost gone then. I know!” He lay panting for a moment, then spoke the name of Joe Louden.

Joe came quickly to the bedside.

“I want you to shake hands with the Colonel and Peter and Buckalew.”

“We did,” answered the Colonel, infinitely surprised and troubled.  “We shook hands outside before we came in.”

“Do it again,” said Eskew.  “I want to see you.”

And Joe, making shift to smile, was suddenly blinded, so that he could not see the wrinkled hands extended to him, and was fain to grope for them.

“God knows why we didn’t all take his hand long ago,” said Eskew Arp.  “I didn’t because I was stubborn.  I hated to admit that the argument was against me.  I acknowledge it now before him and before you—­and I want the word of it carried!”

“It’s all right, Mr. Arp,” began Joe, tremulously.  “You mustn’t—­”

“Hark to me”—­the old man’s voice lifted higher:  “If you’d ever whimpered, or give back-talk, or broke out the wrong way, it would of been different.  But you never did.  I’ve watched you and I know; and you’ve just gone your own way alone, with the town against you because you got a bad name as a boy, and once we’d given you that, everything you did or didn’t do, we had to give you a blacker one.  Now it’s time some one stood by you!  Airie Tabor ’ll do that with all her soul and body.  She told me once I thought a good deal of you.  She knew!  But I want these three old friends of mine to do it, too.  I was boys with them and they’ll do it, I think.  They’ve even stood up fer you against me, sometimes, but mostly fer the sake of the argument, I reckon; but now they must do it when there’s more to stand against than just my talk.  They saw it all to-day—­the meanest thing I ever knew!  I could of stood it all except that!” Before they could prevent him he had struggled half upright in bed, lifting a clinched fist at the town beyond the windows.  “But, by God! when they got so low down they tried to kill your dog—­”