"I believe it does you good to write, boy," said the other, as he bent
over him. "You look more chirrupy than you have for several days."

"It's that beast, McCune; young Fisbee is rather queer about it, and I
felt stirred up as I went along." But even before the sentence was
finished the favor of age and utter weariness returned, and the dark lids
closed over his eyes. They opened again, slowly, and he took the others
hand and looked up at him mournfully, but as it were his soul shone forth
in dumb and eloquent thanks.

"I--I'm giving you a jolly summer, Tom," he said, with a quivering effort
to smile. "Don't you think I am? I don't--I don't know what I should have
--done----"

"You old Indian!" said Meredith, tenderly.

Three days later, Tom was rejoiced by symptoms of invigoration in his
patient. A telegram came for Harkless, and Meredith, bringing it into the
sick room, was surprised to find the occupant sitting straight up on his
couch without the prop of pillows. He was reading the day's copy of the
"Herald," and his face was flushed and his brow stern.

"What's the matter, boy?"

"Mismanagement, I hope," said the other, in a strong voice. "Worse,
perhaps. It's this young Fisbee. I can't think what's come over the
fellow. I thought he was a rescuing angel, and he's turning out bad. I'll
swear it looks like they'd been--well, I won't say that yet. But he hasn't
printed that McCune business I told you of, and he's had two days. There
is less than a week before the convention, and--" He broke off, seeing the