, and he
thinks there was money left on him. Slattery's head was hurt--he can't
remember. He'll go shares with you, when he gets it. Slattery's going to
stand by you, if he can get the money."

The Teller only tried to move his free hand to the shoulder Barrett had
shaken.

"Slattery wants to know," repeated the surgeon, gently moving the hand
back upon the sheet. "He'll divvy up, when he gets it. He'll stand by
you, old man."

"Would you please not mind," whispered the Teller faintly, "would
you please not mind if you took care not to brush against my shoulder
again?"

The surgeon drew back with an exclamation; but the Teller's whisper
gathered strength, and they heard him murmuring oddly to himself.
Meredith moved forward.

"What's that?" he asked, with a startled gesture.

"Seems to be trying to sing, or something," said Barrett, bending over
to listen. The Teller swung his arm heavily over the side of the cot,
the fingers never ceasing their painful twitching, and Gay leaned down
and gently moved the cloths so that the white, scarred lips were free.
They moved steadily; they seemed to be framing the semblance of an old
ballad that Meredith knew; the whisper grew more distinct, and it became
a rich but broken voice, and they heard it singing, like the sound of
some far, halting minstrelsy:

"Wave willows--murmur waters--golden sunbeams smile, Earthly
music--cannot waken--lovely--Annie Lisle."

"My God!" cried Tom Meredith.

The bandaged hand waved jauntily over the Teller's head. "Ah, men," he
said, almost clearly, and tried to lift himself on his arm, "I tell
you it's a grand eleven we have this year! There will be little left of
anything that stands against them. Did you see Jim Romley ride over his
man this afternoon?"

As the voice grew clearer the sheriff stepped forward, but Tom Meredith,
with a loud exclamation of grief, threw himself on his knees beside
the cot and seized the wandering fingers in his own. "John!" he cried.
"John! Is it _you_?"

The voice went on rapidly, not heeding him: "Ah, you needn't howl; I'd
have been as much use at right as that Sophomore. Well, laugh away, you
Indians! If it hadn't been for this ankle--but it seems to be my chest
that's hurt--and side--not that it matters, you know; the Sophomore's
just as good, or better. It's only my egotism. Yes, it must be
the side--and chest--and head--all over, I believe. Not that it
matters--I'll try again next year--next year I