Banty was no coward, but Con looked terrifyingly fierce and in dead earnest, and the boy’s common sense told him that he could far better serve these stricken shackmen in doing as he was bidden.  So after more explanations and instructions, he mounted and rode away like one possessed, Con’s last words ringing in his ears:  “Don’t forget barrels of tar soap, and tons of tea.  I haven’t had a drink of tea for ten days.”

Late that night a young doctor rode up from Kamloops, and in his wake a professional nurse with supplies of food, medicines, and exquisitely fresh, clean sheets.  While the physician bent over the sick man, Con seized a package of groceries and in five minutes was drinking a cup of his beloved English tea, as calmly as if he had been nursing a friend with a headache.

Presently the doctor beckoned him outside.  Con put down his cup regretfully and followed.

“Young man,” said the doctor, eyeing him curiously, “Do you know who this man is you’ve been nursing, exposing yourself to death for?”

“Haven’t an idea; I call him ‘Snooks,’” said Con.

“Much better call him ‘Crooks,’” said the doctor, angrily.  “You’ve been risking your life and that pretty pink English skin of yours for one of the most worthless men in British Columbia; he’s been a cattle rustler, a ‘salter’ of gold mines, and everything that is discreditable; it makes me indignant.  He tells me he at least had the decency to warn you, when you came here.  What ever made you come on—­in?”

Con stared at the doctor, a cold, a “stony British” stare.  “Why, doctor,” he said, “because Snooks has been a—­a—­failure, I don’t see that’s any reason why I should be a cad.”

The doctor looked at him hard.  “I wish I had a son like you,” he remarked.

“My father is an army surgeon; he’s been through the cholera scourge in India twice.  I never could have looked him in the face again if I hadn’t seen Snooks through,” said Con, simply.

“Well, you can look him in the face now all right, boy!” the doctor replied, gravely.  “Say good-bye to your sick friend, for we’ve brought a tent and you are to be soaked in disinfectants and put into quarantine.  No more of this pest-shack for you, my boy.”

So Con went back to shake hands with “Snooks,” who said very quietly:  “I can’t even say ‘Thank you,’ as I want to; I guess the best way to thank a pard is to live it, not speak it.  I ain’t said a prayer for years till the day you came here, and I’ve prayed night and day, real prayers, that you wouldn’t get this disease.  Maybe that’ll show you, pard, that I’ve started to be a new man.”

“Yes, that shows,” answered Con confidentially, and with another handclasp, he left for his little tent, with a great faith in his heart that the sick man’s prayers would be answered.

At last one joyous day the doctor sent for Banty, who rode over with a led horse, and Con, leaping into the saddle, waved good-bye to Snooks, who, now convalescent, stood in the door of the distant shack.  As the boy galloped off up the trail, Snooks turned to the nurse and said: