"Why, it is Solomon Sharroe," exclaimed Vale. "He must be sick. I shall go and investigate."
Grace Jerrold followed him, and the two were filled with pity by the plight of the old man. He was sitting on the narrow, uncomfortable seat of a light fruit-waggon, his head resting weakly on the shoulder of the sullen youth who held the reins. His hollow eyes stared blankly before him; his dark hands were clasped resignedly between his bony knees.
"What is wrong with him?" Derek asked of the boy.
"I dunno. He ain't been much good fer a week, but he got took worse last night and Muster McNeil waount have him dyin' on him, so I've brung him back to Chard's where he come from."
"Where is his family?"
"Comin' by tram."
"Mr. McNeil has a comfortable buggy," cried Grace. "Why did he send him in this wretched waggon?"
The youth grinned. "He thought it was good enough fer an Injun, I s'pose."
"Oh, the brute! I shall have my father write him a letter. We must get a doctor at once."
"Where do you feel the worst, Solomon?" asked Derek, raising his voice.
"My spirit," he answered, in a surprisingly strong voice. "My spirit . . . is broke. . . . You are a gentleman and I am a chief . . . you understand. Now about that five dollars . . . I have done very badly at McNeil's. He treated me like a dog . . . "
"Never mind about the money. I am going to send for a doctor for you. Have you any special pain? Would you take a little brandy?"
"Yes, I would. You get me a little in a bottle and my
