o men went about their duties with solemn faces, and talked almost in
a whisper. Occasionally one of them went out for delicate game, and by
alternate watches they managed to get sufficient sleep to recruit their
exhausted energies.

One morning, after Mike had been there four or five days, both stood by
Benedict's bed, and felt that a crisis was upon him. A great uneasiness
had possessed him for some hours, and then he had sunk away into a
stupor or a sleep, they could not determine which.

The two men watched him for a while, and then went out and sat down on a
log in front of the cabin, and held a consultation.

"Mike," said Jim, "somethin' must be did. We've did our best an' nothin'
comes on't; an' Benedict is nearer Abram's bosom nor I ever meant he
should come in my time. I ain't no doctor; you ain't no doctor. We've
nussed 'im the best we knowed, but I guess he's a goner. It's too
thunderin' bad, for I'd set my heart on puttin' 'im through."

"Well," said Mike, "I've got me hundred dollars, and you'll git yer pay
in the nixt wurruld."

"I don't want no pay," responded Jim. "An' what do ye know about the
next world, anyway?"

"The praste says there is one," said Mike.

"The priest be hanged! What does he know about it?"

"That's his business," said Mike. "It's not for the like o' me to answer
for the praste."

"Well, I wish he was here, in Number Nine, an' we'd see what we could
git out of 'im. I've got to the eend o' my rope."

The truth was that Jim was becoming religious. When his own strong right
hand failed in any enterprise, he always came to a point where the
possibilities of a superior wisdom and power dawned upon him. He had
never offered a prayer in his life, but the wish for some medium or
instrument of intercession was strong within him. At last an idea struck
him, and he turned to Mike and told him to go down to his old cabin, and
stay there while he sent the boy back to him.

When Harry came up, with an anxious face, Jim took him between his
knees.

"Little feller," said he, "I need comfortin'. It's a comfort to have ye
here in my arms, an' I don't never want to have you go 'way from me.
Your pa is awful sick, and perhaps he ain't never goin' to be no better.
The rain and the ride, I'm afeared, was too many fur him; but I've did
the best I could, and I meant well to both on ye, an' now I can't do no
more, and there ain't no doctor here, an' there ain't no minister. Ye've
allers been a