"No, Doc, the boy's all right. Leastwise if he's daffy, as you call it, I wish to God we'd all got that way long ago. Then we wouldn't be in the condition you find us to-day. Say, Doc, don't you ever expect to be a Christian? If you were in my place you'd see what it means to face death without God." "Gee, you're good!" said the physician. "The way you talked to Gene Dibble when I sewed up your head after the fight didn't sound much like a prayer to me. You want to get forgiven here before you ask God to do anything for you there. Now, kid, you'd better forget about this religion and tend to the old man. Give him his medicine every hour, and I'll be in again to-morrow. Good-bye." He slammed the door, and Jimmie sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he turned to his father and said: "Pa, Gene'll forgive yer if yer ast him. I'll go over ter Fagin's and if he ain't dere I'll tell Mike ter send him over wen he comes in." "How's the old man, Jimmie?" asked Fagin as the boy entered the saloon. "Doc says he's dyin'. Is Gene Dibble here? Wish't you'd tell him Pa wants ter see him," said the boy as he turned to go. "Wait a minute, Jimmie; I want to send a little medicine to your father." He took a bottle from the back bar and began to wrap it up in a scrap of old newspaper. "This is about all the poor devil lived for," he said to himself, "and he ought to have a taste now that he's dyin'." "Is dat booze?" asked Jimmie. "It's just a nip for the old man. It's his favorite brand," said Fagin. "Not his'n; he's got saved an' don't need it in his business," replied the boy, starting for the door. "Come here, you little fool, and take this bottle to your dad with my compliments," said the saloon-man in anger. "It's your compliments wat's ailin' him now," answered Jimmie. "Yer got his nine dollars last Tuesday night, and now he's dyin'. I seen yer Ralph goin' ter school wid new shoes and rubbers dis mornin', an' I'm wearin' yer compliments," said the boy, holding up one of his feet encased in a worn-out lady's shoe. "I promised Pa dat I'd take care of Ma an' der kids, and we don't need no booze ter help us, not us." Jimmie ducked and dodged out of the door just in time to escape a soaking wet bar towel the saloon-man had thrown at him, and at a single bound jumped to the middle of the sidewalk just in time to collide with Bill Cook. "Hello Bill," he said. "Why ain't yer workin'? Drunk agin? Gee! you'll be seein' 'em agin. Der las' time yer was crazier den a bed bug." "You be d----!" said Bill. "Guess I'm all right. Only had three drinks. You's is gittin' too good for this neck o' woods. Yer orter move up on der boulevard amongst der bloods." "Don't Ma do washin' up dere now, smarty? We got friends up dere; see? Why don't yer come over an' see Pa? He's dyin'." "Go on!" said Bill. "Ye don't mean it! Kin I see him?" "Sure, come on."