old age.

"I'll be in the middle of it, a club in each hand," promised Flagg. And
his molten ponderings kept alight the fires in his face.

They halted for the night at one of the Flagg store depots and were
lodged in the office camp, reserved sacred to the master and his boss.

Latisan slept in the bunk above the master.

Flagg had been silent all the evening, poring over the accounts that the
storekeeper had turned over.

He sighed frequently; he seemed to be weary. After a time he kicked off
his larrigans and rolled into his bunk, ready dressed as he had stood.
He seemed to lack the volition to remove his clothing.

He was snoring calmly when Latisan went to sleep.

Sometime in the night the young man awoke. The sounds which he heard
below him were not the snores of a man who was sleeping peacefully.
There was something ominous about the spasmodic and stertorous
breathing.

Latisan slipped to the floor and lighted a lamp. He found the wide eyes
of Flagg staring from the gloom of the bunk.

"What is it, Mr. Flagg? What is the matter?" he asked, with solicitude.

Flagg slowly reached with his left hand, picked up his right hand, and
when he released it the hand fell as helplessly as so much dead flesh.
"That's it," he said, without apparent emotion. "It's a shock." He
employed the colloquial name for a stroke of paralysis. "My mother was
that way. I've been afraid of it--have expected it, as you might say.
Mother lived ten years after her shock. I hope to God I won't. For it
has taken me just when I'm ready to put up my best fight--and it's my
good right hand, Latisan, my right hand!"

CHAPTER EIGHT

That was Flagg's reiterated lament on the journey back to Adonia. "It's
my right hand, Latisan!"

Ward had insisted on being the charioteer for the stricken master,
promising to rush back to headwaters and take charge of the crew. He
tried to console the old man by urging that getting in touch as soon as
possible with capable doctors might restore his strength. "It may be
only a clot in the brain, sir. Such cases have been helped."

"It's my right hand. It's like my mother's. She never could lift it
again."

They had started before dawn; a gibbous moon shed enough light on the
tote road to serve Latisan. Flagg was couched on a sled, his blanket
propped up by hay. His scepter, the curiously marked cant dog, lay
beside him. He had made sure of that before he allowed the team to
start.

"I propos