When I got back to the horse and started to mount, he kicked me and broke my leg. You can go on south to the L. and N. and take a train to Cincinnati. When you find a boarding house send your address to me at the office. I'll come in a few weeks. I'd write more but I can't. Don't worry. Everything'll come out right. You are brave and sensible, and I _back you to win_. With the unsigned letter crumpled in her hands she sat at the window with scarcely a motion until noon. She then went down to the show boat. Several people--men and women--were on the forward end, quarreling. She looked only at her acquaintance. His face was swollen and his eyes bloodshot, but he still wore the air of easy and patient good-humor. She said, standing on the shore, "Could I speak to you a minute?" "Certainly, ma'am," replies he, lifting his dingy straw hat with gaudy, stained band. He came down the broad plank to the shore. "Why, what's the matter?" This in a sympathetic tone. "Will you lend me two dollars and take me along to work it out?" she asked. He eyed her keenly. "For the hotel bill?" he inquired, the cigar tucked away in the corner of his mouth. She nodded. "He didn't show up?" "He broke his leg." "Oh!" The tone was politely sympathetic, but incredulous. He eyed her critically, thoughtfully. "Can you sing?" he finally asked. "A little." His hands were deep in the pockets of his baggy light trousers. He drew one of them out with a two-dollar bill in it. "Go and pay him and bring your things. We're about to push off." "Thank you," said the girl in the same stolid way. She returned to the hotel, brought the bag down from her room, stood at the office desk. The servant came. "Mr. Gumpus has jes' stepped out," said she. "Here is the money for my room." And Susan laid the two-dollar bill on the register. "Ain't you goin' to wait fur yer--yer brother?" "He's not coming," replied the girl. "So--I'll go. Good-by." "Good-by. It's awful, bein' took sick away from home." "Thank you," said Susan. "Good-by."