Shall reach Tillman at eight this evening and will drive direct to the hospital. Please arrange it so I can see him immediately after I arrive there. She was in the sick room watching, when Jim was shown in. He walked directly to the bed and stood looking down at Bridge for a moment, and then spoke to Grace Burns. “Has he any chance? What is it?” “It's scarlet fever. The doctor doesn't seem to think there's much hope.” “Poor devil,” said Jim under his breath. The nurse suddenly bent forward over the sick man, and motioned Jim to silence. Bridge's lips were moving and he seemed to be struggling to speak. “Yes, he's here,” said the nurse in answer to the half-heard question. Jim dropped on one knee beside the bed. “Yes, I'm Jim Weeks,” he said. “Do you want to tell me anything?” Again it was the nurse's ear that caught the words, “My coat--in the pocket--the contract.” “I'll get it,” she said quickly, and in a moment she had come back into the room, with the coat Bridge had worn when they brought him to the hospital. Jim took the coat, took a handful of papers out of the pockets and glanced over them. A scrawled and crumpled sheet caught his eye, and straightening it out he read it carefully, holding it close to the dim night lamp. He stood erect again, staring intently at the grotesque shadows on the screen. Grace Burns, who was watching him, saw that for the moment Bridge was forgotten. But presently his face softened and a smile came into his eyes. Again he went to the bedside and dropped on one knee. He spoke softly, but there was a restrained ring in his voice. “You've saved us, Bridge; can you understand me? We're going to win out. You were in time.” He took the thin hand that lay on the coverlet and it clasped his convulsively. He looked curiously at the sick man, and then as the weak grip was not relaxed he sat down on the side of the bed and waited. Five minutes crept away, and another five, and then the slow easy breathing told them that Bridge was asleep. As the hand let go of his, Weeks rose to go. The nurse followed him to the door, where she said simply:-- “Thank you for coming. It saved his life.” “Then it was you who saved it,” said Jim. “And you saved me, too. I won't forget it.” CHAPTER XXII THE WINNING OF THE ROAD The Chicago papers reach Tillman City by nine o'clock every morning, and the inhabitants wait till then for information from the outside world. At supper time they read fragmentary Associated Press despatches and a more or less accurate chronicle of local happenings in _The Watchman_. Since the coming of the new editor, Tillman's one daily had contrived to worry along without the assistance of a patent inside, for he was an ambitious young fellow with a knack for writing snappy editorials, and he made the most of the meagre news the city furnished.