stuck to his job until he got it up.

Another snowstorm brought back his rheumatism; he got permission to
sit indoors. The old wheel lay idle in the corner; he was hungry and
his pipe had been empty for a day and a night; but still he sat bolt
upright, in pain, alone, with starvation staring him in the face. The
third day of his voluntary fast he got a letter. It contained a
one-dollar bill. The sender was watching at a safe distance and he
recorded that the Graf's puzzled look almost developed into a smile.
He gathered himself together and hobbled out to a nearby German
saloon. Next day came the first sign of surrender. He accepted a
commission to take a census of the house. This at last helped to thaw
him out, but it didn't last long.

His rheumatism prevented him from pushing his wheel through the
streets and I secured him a corner in a locksmith's basement. He had
not been there many weeks when he disappeared. The locksmith told a
story which seemed incredible. He said the old Graf had sold his wheel
and given the proceeds to an Irishwoman to help defray the funeral
expenses of her child.

Some months later, the clerk of the bunk-house got a postal card from
"One-eyed Dutchy." He was on the Island, and the Graf and he were
working together on the ash gang. I secured his release from the
Island.

When he returned to the bunk-house, every one who had ever seen him
noted a marked change. He no longer lived in a shell. He had become a
human, and took an interest in what was going on. One night when a few
of the Ex-Club were exchanging reminiscences, he was prevailed upon to