ritation had subsided, and then drew
the other letter from his pocket. "That ain't all, boys," he began in a
faltering voice, but gradually working himself up to a pitch of pathos;
"just as I was thinking all them very things, I kinder noticed this yer
poor little bit o' paper lyin' thar lonesome like and forgotten,
and I--read it--and well--gentlemen--it just choked me right up!" He
stopped, and his voice faltered.

"Go slow, Daddy, go slow!" said an auditor smilingly. It was evident
that Daddy's sympathetic weakness was well known.

Daddy read the child's letter. But, unfortunately, what with his real
emotion and the intoxication of an audience, he read it extravagantly,
and interpolated a child's lisp (on no authority whatever), and a
simulated infantile delivery, which, I fear, at first provoked the
smiles rather than the tears of his audience. Nevertheless, at its
conclusion the little note was handed round the party, and then there
was a moment of thoughtful silence.

"Tell you what it is, boys," said Fletcher, looking around the table,
"we ought to be doin' suthin' for them kids right off! Did you," turning
to Daddy, "say anythin' about this to Dick?"

"Nary--why, he's clean off his head with fever--don't understand a
word--and just babbles," returned Daddy, forgetful of his roseate
diagnosis a moment ago, "and hasn't got a cent."

"We must make up what we can amongst us afore the mail goes to-night,"
said the "infant," feeling hurriedly in his pockets. "Come, ante up,
gentlemen," he added, laying the contents of his buckskin purse upon the
table.

"Hold on, boys," said a quiet voice. It was their host Falloner, who had
just risen and was slipping on his oilskin coat. "You've got enough to
do, I reckon, to look after your own folks. I've none! Let this be my
affair. I've got to go to the Express Office anyhow to see about my
passage home, and I'll just get a draft for a hundred dollars for
that old skeesicks--what's his blamed name? Oh, Ricketts"--he made a
memorandum from the letter--"and I'll send it by express. Meantime, you
fellows sit down there and write something--you know what--saying that
Dick's hurt his hand and can't write--you know; but asked you to send
a draft, which you're doing. Sabe? That's all! I'll skip over to the
express now and get the draft off, and you can mail the letter an hour
later. So put your dust back in your pockets and help yourselves to the
whiskey while I'm gone." He clap