“It’s mighty tough on fellers of our age, Jim, to grow old alone in the world,” sighed Bob, reaching out to the crate for another splinter. “I’d ruther have less money an’ more rale home comforts. Kin is a great thing. Brother Sam sent me a pictur’ uv his little gal. I wish I had it to show you; she’s mighty purty an’ smart-lookin’. It made me mighty homesick.’ “I reckon it did,” said Bradley. “I’ve seed dogs that lived better than I do. D’ you fellers ever see whar I bunk?” “No,” joined in Thornton and Webb, seeing that they were addressed. “Come into my parlor, then;” and Jim grinned, broadly. He lifted the lamp, and holding it over his head, he led them through some curtains made of cotton bagging into the back room. Empty boxes, hogsheads, crates, bales of hay, heaps of old iron, and every sort of rubbish imaginable covered the floor. A narrow bed stood by a window between a row of dripping syrup-barrels and the greasy wall. “Thar’s whar I sleep,” said Jim, pointing to the bed. “It hain’t been made up in a coon’s age. Sometimes old Injun Mary changes the sheets an’ turns the mattress when she happens along, but it hain’t often. At home I used to sleep in a big sweet-smellin’ bed that was like lyin’ down in a pile o’ roses.” “I’d think you’d git tired o’ this; I would, by hooky!” declared Bob. “Whar do you git yore grub?” “Fust one place an’ then another; I don’t bother much about my eatin’. I have to light out o’ bed to wait on the fust one that rattles the doorknob in the mornin’, an’ am so busy from then on that I cayn’t find a minute to git a bite o’ breakfast. See my kettle thar? I can make as good a cup o’ coffee as the next one. Half a cup o’ ground Javy in my coffeepot, with bilin’ water poured on, an’ then put on the stove to bile ag’in, does the business. Thar’s my skillet; a cowboy give it to me. Sometimes I fry a slice o’ streak-o’-lean-streak-o’-fat, ur a few cracked eggs, but it hain’t half livin’.” They walked back and sat down in the store again. Bob had a strange, perplexed look on his face. Webb was about to make some reference to his offer, when Bob forestalled him in a rather excited tone. “Jim, did yore mother live nigh Ellijay?” “‘Bout three miles from town. What in the thunder is the matter? What are you starin’ at me that way fer?” Bob looked down and moved uneasily on the barrel. “I was jest a-wonderin’--my Lord, Jim! thar was a feller shot the day I passed through Ellijay. I cayn’t be shore, but it seems to me his name was Joe Bradley. He was a troublesome, rowdyish sort of a feller, an’ a man had to shoot ’im in self-defense.” Jim stared at the speaker helplessly, and then glanced around at Webb and Thornton. His great brown eyes began to dilate, and a sickly pallor came into his face. His breathing fell distinct and harsh on the profound stillness of the room. His mouth dropped open, but he was unable to utter a word.