an write with ginger; please show
some in this matter.

"My condition is improved.

"I am, very truly yours,

"JOHN HARKLESS."

When the letter was concluded, he handed it to Meredith. "Please address
that, put a 'special' on it, and send it, Tom. It should go at once, so
as to reach him by to-night."

"H. Fisbee?"

"Yes; H. Fisbee."

"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 yellow envelope in Meredith's hand. "Is that a telegram
for me?" His companion gave it to him. He tore it open and read the
contents. They were brief and unhappy.

"Can't you do something? Can't you come down? It begins to look the
other way.

"K. H."

"It's from Halloway," said John. "I have got to go. What did that doctor
say?"

"He said two weeks at the earliest, or you'll run into typhoid and
complications from your hurts, and even pleasanter things than that.
I've got you here, and here you s