and Harold, with his arm round his friend, dragged him through
the garden, and across the shop, and pushed him into the arm-chair by the
fire, Mrs. King following, and Ellen rushing down from up-stairs.

'There!' cried Harold, all in a breath, 'there he is! That rascal tried
to rob me on Ragglesford Bridge, and was nigh too much for me; but _he_
there came and pulled him off me, and got spilt into the river, and he's
got a chill, and if you don't give him something jolly hot, Mother, he'll
catch his death!'

Mrs. King thought so too: Paul's state looked to her more alarming than
it did even to Harold. He did not seem able to think or speak, but kept
rocking himself towards the fire, and that terrible shivering shaking him
all over.

'Poor lad!' she said kindly. 'I'll tell you what, Harold, all you can do
is put him into your bed at once.--Here, Ellen, you run up first, and
bring me a shirt to warm for him. Then we'll get his own clothes dried.'

'No, no,' cried Harold, with a caper, 'we'll make a scare-crow of 'em.
You don't know what I know, Mother. I've got twelve shillings and
sixpence here all his own; and you'll see what I won't do with it at old
Levi's, the second-hand clothes man, to-night.'

Harold grew less noisy as he saw how little good the fire was doing to
his patient, and how ill his mother seemed to think him. He quietly
obeyed her, by getting him up-stairs, and putting him into his own bed,
the first in which Paul had lain down for more than four months. Then
Mrs. King sent Harold out for some gin; she thought hot spirits and water
the only chance of bringing back any life after such a dreadful chill;
and she and Ellen kept on warming flannels and shawls to restore some
heat, and to stop the trembling that shook the bed, so that Alfred felt
it, even in the next room, where he lay with the door open, longing to be
able to help, and wishing to understand what could have happened.

At last, the cordial and the warm applications effected some good. Paul
was able to say, 'I don't know why you are so good to me,' and seemed
ready to burst into a great fit of crying; but Mrs. King managed to stop
him by saying something about one good turn deserving another, and that
she hoped he was coming round now.

Harold was now at leisure to tell the story in his brother's room. Alfred
did not grieve now at his brother's being able to do spirited things; he
laughed out loud, and said, 'Well done, Harold!' a