an' there 's no clo'es in it, that I can see, when he opens it, to get at the few pence he wants now an' again. An' he starves hisself, an' says he 's not fit to live, an' calls hisself sitch awful names, an'—"
"Well, well, show me his room," said Slagg, with as much decision in his tone as compelled immediate obedience.
In the corner of a small room, on a truckle-bed, with scant bedding, lay the emaciated form of John Shanks, alias Stumps, alias James Gibson. He had raised himself on one elbow, and was gazing with great lustrous invalid eyes at the door, when his old comrade entered, for he had been watching, and heard the first sound of footsteps in the passage.
"Oh! Jim Slagg," he cried, extending a hand which bore strong resemblance to a claw, it was so thin. "Come to me, Jim. How I 've wished an' longed, an'—"
He stopped and burst into tears, for he was very weak, poor fellow, and even strong men weep when their strength is brought low.
"Come now, Stumps," said Slagg, in a serious voice, as he sat down on the bed, put an arm round his old comrade's thin shoulders, and made him lie down, "if you go to excite yourself like that, I 'll—I 'll—quit the room, an' I won't come back for an hour or more."
