ome, which the broad window,
noisily shaken by a hearty winter wind from the sea, pleasantly
accentuated.

The gladness of this return, the sudden, overwhelming realization of a
longing that had been agonizing in its intensity, excited the boy
beyond bounds. He gave an indubitable whoop of joy, which so startled
and amazed the woman that she stared open-mouthed; tossed his cap in
the air, flung his overcoat and gloves on the floor, peeped through the
black window-panes, pried into the cupboard, hugged his mother so
rapturously, so embarrassingly, that he tumbled her over and was
himself involved in the hilarious collapse: whereupon, as a measure of
protection while she laid the table, she despatched him across the hall
to greet Mr. Poddle, who was ill abed, anxiously awaiting him.

The Dog-faced Man was all prinked for the occasion--his hirsute
adornment neatly brushed and braided, smoothly parted from crown over
brow and nose to chin: so that, though, to be sure, his appearance
instantly suggested a porcupine, his sensitive lips and mild gray eyes
were for once allowed to impress the beholder. The air of Hockley's
Musee had at last laid him by the heels. No longer, by any license of
metaphor, could his lungs be said to be merely restless. He was flat
on his back--white, wan, gasping: sweat dampening the hair on his brow.
But he bravely chirked up when the child entered, subdued and pitiful;
and though, in response to a glance of pain and concern, his eyes
overran with the weak tears of the sick, he smiled like a man to whom
Nature had not been cruel, while he pressed the small hand so swiftly
extended.

"I'm sick, Richard," he whispered. "'Death No Respecter of Persons.'
Git me? 'High and Low Took By the Grim Reaper.' I'm awful sick."

The boy, now seated on the bed, still holding the ghastly hand, hoped
that Mr. Poddle would soon be well.

"No," said the Dog-faced Man. "I won't. 'Climax of a Notable Career.'
Git me? It wouldn't--be proper."

Not proper?

"No, Richard. It really wouldn't be proper. 'Dignified in Death.'
Understand? Distinguished men has their limits. 'Outlived His Fame.'
I really couldn't stand it. Git me?"

"Not--quite."

"Guess I'll have to tell you. Look!" The Dog-faced Man held up his
hand--but swiftly replaced it between the child's warm, sympathetic
palms. "No rings. Understand? 'Pawned the Family Jewells.' Git me?
'Reduced to Poverty.' Where's my frock coat? Wh