man here without care. It would be too cruel."
"You wait till I look about the camp," muttered Jib, without paying much attention to Ruth's last remark.
He left his pony and walked quickly up the overgrown trail that had once been the main street of Tintacker Camp. Ruth slipped out of the saddle and ran to the door of the sick man's hut. She laid her hand on the latch, hesitated a moment, and then pushed the door open. There was plenty of light in the room. The form on the bed, under a tattered old blanket, was revealed. Likewise the flushed, thin face lying against the rolled-lip coat for a pillow.
"The poor fellow!" gasped Ruth. "And suppose it should be her brother! Suppose it should be!"
Only for a few seconds did she stare in at the unfortunate fellow. His head began to roll from side to side on the hard pillow. He muttered some gibberish as an accompaniment to his fevered dreams. It was a young face Ruth saw, but so drawn and haggard that it made her tender heart ache.
"Water! water!" murmured the cracked lips of the fever patient.
"Oh! I can't stand this!" gasped the girl. She wheeled about and sent a long shout after Jib: "Jib! I say, Jib!"
