oft to
each other and lookin' solemn,--swell, high toned folks, that half an
hour before hardly knew such specimens as Rusty existed. But when the
word is passed around that probably he's all in, they takes it just as
hard as if he was one of their own kind. When it comes to takin' the
long jump, we're all pretty much on the same grade, ain't we?

I begun to see where I hadn't any business sizin' up Rusty like I had,
and was workin' up a heavy feelin' in my chest, when the doc. comes out
and asks if there's such a party as Shorty McCabe present. I knew what
was comin'. Rusty has got his eyes open again and is callin' for me.

I finds him half propped up with pillows on a shiny mahogany table, his
face all screwed up from the hurt inside, and the freckles showin' up
on his dead white skin like peach stains on a table cloth.

"They say I'm all to the bad, Shorty," says he, tryin' to spring that
grin of his.

"Aw, cut it out!" says I. "You tell 'em they got another guess.
You're too tough and rugged to go under so easy."

"Think so?" says he, real eager, his eyes lightin' up.

"Sure thing!" says I. Say, I put all the ginger and cheerfulness I
could fake up into that lie. And it seems to do him a heap of good.
When I asks him if there's anything he wants, he makes another crack at
his grin, and says:

"A paper pipe would taste good about now."

"Let him have it," says the doc. So the student digs out his cigarette
case, and we helps Rusty light up.

"Ain't there somethin' more, Rusty?" says I. "You know the house is
yours."

"Well," says he, after a few puffs, "if this is to be a long wait, a
little music would help. There's a piano over in the corner."

I looks at the doc. and shakes my head. He shakes back.

"I used to play a few hymns," says the student.

"Forget 'em, then," says Rusty. "A hymn would finish me, sure. What
I'd like is somethin' lively."

"Doc.," says I, "would it hurt?"

"Couldn't," says he. Also he whispers that he'd use chloroform, only
Rusty's heart's too bad, and if he wants ragtime to deal it out.

"Wish I could," says I; "but maybe I can find some one who can."

With that I slips out and hunts up Mrs. Twombley-Crane, explainin' the
case to her.

"Why, certainly," says she. "Where is Effie? I'll send her in right
away."

She's a real damson plum, Effie is; one of the cute, fluffy haired
kind, about nineteen. She comes in lookin' scared and sober; but when
she