men wants. Just love! It's love their hearts is thirsty
for.... And there wasn't no love--for me. I been awful thirsty,
Richard; but there wasn't no water anywhere in all the world--for me.
'Spoiled In the Making.' That's me. 'God's Bad Break.' Oh, that's
me! I'm not a natural phenomonen no more. I'm only a freak of nature.
I ain't got no kick comin'. I stand by what God done. Maybe it wasn't
no mistake; maybe He wanted to show all the people in the world what
would happen if He was in the habit of gittin' careless. Anyhow, I
guess He's man enough to stand by the job He done. He made me what I
am--a freak. I ain't to blame. But, oh, my God! Richard, it
hurts--to be that!"

The boy brushed the tears from the Dog-faced Man's eyes.

"No," Mr. Poddle repeated. "I ain't afraid to die. For I been
thinkin'--since I been lyin' here, sick and alone--I been thinkin' that
us mistakes has a good deal----"

The boy bent close.

"Comin' to us!"

The sunlight was climbing the bed-post.

"I been lookin' back," Mr. Poddle repeated. "Things don't look the
same. You gits a bird's-eye view of life--from your deathbed. And it
looks--somehow--different."

There was a little space of silence--while the Dog-faced Man drew long
breaths: while his wasted hand wandered restlessly over the coverlet.

"You got the little brush, Richard?" he asked, his voice changing to a
tired sigh. "The adornment has got in the way again."

The boy brushed back the fallen hair--wiped away the sweat.

"Your mother," said Mr. Poddle, faintly smiling, "does it better.
She's used--to doing it. You ain't--done it--quite right--have you?
You ain't got--all them hairs--out of the way?"

"Yes."

"Not all," Mr. Poddle gently persisted; "because I can't--see--very
well."

While the boy humoured the fancy, Mr. Poddle lay musing--his hand still
straying over the coverlet: still feverishly searching.

"I used to think, Richard," he whispered, "that it ought to be done--in
public." He paused--a flash of alarm in his eyes. "Do you hear me,
Richard?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Sure?"

"Oh, yes!"

Mr. Poddle frowned--puzzled, it may be, by the distant sound, the
muffled, failing rumble, of his own voice.

"I used to think," he repeated, dismissing the problem, as beyond him,
"that I'd like to do it--in public."

The boy waited.

"Die," Mr. Poddle explained.

A man went whistling gaily past the door. The merry air, the buoyant
step