"He took a mighty oncomfortable time o' year fur trampin'," said a blear-eyed vagabond near the stove. "I've ben meditatin' somethin' o' the kind myself, but reckon I'll wait fur warm weather. My constitution is delikit." "_Don't_ wait for warm weather, Shanks," said Buckey himself, leaning comfortably across the counter. "They'll make it warm enough for _you_, whenever ye go!" At the laugh which followed this sally, Dixon started and looked around him, in a dazed sort of way. The laugh died out suddenly, and the men sank into a shame-faced silence, but even now he did not speak. "They's somethin' in his breast pocket, Square," said one of them, bending over the body. "Somethin' like a book, or a----" "Take it out, Slater," said Dixon, in a voice at which all present started, and looked at him curiously. The man did as ordered, producing from the tattered pocket a small, soiled blank-book, whose pages appeared to be closely written. He handed it to Dixon, who took it mechanically, and, opening it, appeared to glance at the contents at random. Those nearest him saw his fingers close suddenly upon the book, and heard the sharp indrawn breath which he shut back between his teeth. He put his hand to his head again, and held it there while his eyes swept over the group of respectful but inquisitive faces. "There is something here," he said, holding the book before him, and speaking in the voice which had once before made them start--"there is something here I would like to look into. Let the--the body lie here until I come back." There was a murmur of assent, and he turned and left the store. They saw him stand a moment on the step outside, his face toward home. Then he turned in the opposite direction and disappeared. Dixon entered his office, locked the door, and flung himself into his chair, the little book open before him. The ashen ring had widened until his whole face was like that of the dead. Not a muscle of his rigid face stirred as with desperate eyes he read on and on. Only the faint rustle of the leaves as he turned the pages, and his heavy breathing broke the silence. And this is what he read: THE DEAD MAN'S STORY. _W----, 187-._ My wanderings are almost over. Exposure and misery have nearly finished their work. I feel my strength ebbing from day to day, and I know that I must soon die, and die, it may be, with the purpose which has sustained me all these years unattained. Knowing this, I have determined to write in this book the story of my life, hoping that when I am dead--"found dead," it may be, like a tramp or vagabond--some pitying eye may fall upon these words and give me decent burial, for something in me rebels at being thrown like a dog into an outcast's grave. Here is the story as I have repeated it over and over to myself hundreds of times during the weary years that have passed: