a pretty decent sort? Did you ever know of a man who loved
pie--who'd go out of his way to get pie--that didn't have a heart in him
bigger than a pumpkin? I guess you didn't. If a man's got a good stomach
he isn't a grouch, and he won't stick a knife into your back; but if he
eats from habit--or necessity--he isn't a beautiful character in the
eyes of nature, and there's pretty sure to be a cog loose somewhere in
his makeup. I'm a grub-scientist, David. I warn you of that before we
get off at Thoreau's. I love to eat, and the Frenchman knows it. That's
why I can smell things in that cabin, forty miles away."

He was rubbing his hands briskly and his face radiated such joyous
anticipation as he talked that David unconsciously felt the spirit of
his enthusiasm. He had gripped one of Father Roland's hands and was
pumping it up and down almost before he realized what he was doing.

"I'll get off with you at Thoreau's," he exclaimed, "and later, if I
feel as I do now, and you still want my company, I'll go on with you
into the north country!"

A slight flush rose into his thin cheeks and his eyes shone with a
freshly lighted enthusiasm. As Father Roland saw the change in him his
hands closed over David's.

"I knew you had a splendid stomach in you from the moment you finished
telling me about the woman," he cried exultantly. "I knew it, David. And
I do want your company--I want it as I never wanted the company of
another man!"

"That is the strange part of it," replied David, a slight quiver in his
voice. He drew away his hands suddenly and with a jerk brought himself
to his feet. "Good God! look at me!" he cried. "I am a wreck,
physically. It would be a lie if you told me I am not. See these
hands--these arms! I'm down and out. I'm weak as a dog, and the stomach
you speak of is a myth. I haven't eaten a square meal in a year. Why do
you want me as a companion? Why do you think it would be a pleasure for
you to drag a decrepit misfit like myself up into a country like yours?
Is it because of your--your code of faith? Is it because you think you
may save a soul?"

He was breathing deeply. As he excoriated himself and bared his weakness
the hot blood crept slowly into his face.

"Why do you want me to go?" he demanded. "Why don't you ask some man
with red blood in his veins and a heart that hasn't been burned out? Why
have you asked me?"

Father Roland made as if to speak, and then caught himself. Again for a
passin