“Mud! That’s right. I’m a rolling stone. Sometimes I’d most like to quit being.” “That’s easy done,” said the Virginian. “No doubt, when yu’ve found the moss yu’ want to gather.” As Scipio glanced at the school books again, a sparkle lurked in his bleached blue eye. “I can cipher some,” he said. “But I expect I’ve got my own notions about spelling.” “I retain a few private ideas that way myself,” remarked the Virginian, innocently; and Scipio’s sparkle gathered light. “As to my geography,” he pursued, “that’s away out loose in the brush. Is Bennington the capital of Vermont? And how d’ yu’ spell bridegroom?” “Last point!” shouted the Virginian, letting a book fly after him: “don’t let badness and goodness worry yu’, for yu’ll never be a judge of them.” But Scipio had dodged the book, and was gone. As he went his way, he said to himself, “All the same, it must pay to fall regular in love.” At the bunk house that afternoon it was observed that he was unusually silent. His exit from the foreman’s cabin had let in a breath of winter so chill that the Virginian went to see his thermometer, a Christmas present from Mrs. Henry. It registered twenty below zero. After reviving the fire to a white blaze, the foreman sat thinking over the story of Shorty: what its useless, feeble past had been; what would be its useless, feeble future. He shook his head over the sombre question, Was there any way out for Shorty? “It may be,” he reflected, “that them whose pleasure brings yu’ into this world owes yu’ a living. But that don’t make the world responsible. The world did not beget you. I reckon man helps them that help themselves. As for the universe, it looks like it did too wholesale a business to turn out an article up to standard every clip. Yes, it is sorrowful. For Shorty is kind to his hawss.” In the evening the Virginian brought Shorty into his room. He usually knew what he had to say, usually found it easy to arrange his thoughts; and after such arranging the words came of themselves. But as he looked at Shorty, this did not happen to him. There was not a line of badness in the face; yet also there was not a line of strength; no promise in eye, or nose, or chin; the whole thing melted to a stubby, featureless mediocrity. It was a countenance like thousands; and hopelessness filled the Virginian as he looked at this lost dog, and his dull, wistful eyes. But some beginning must be made. “I wonder what the thermometer has got to be,” he said. “Yu’ can see it, if yu’ll hold the lamp to that right side of the window.” Shorty held the lamp. “I never used any,” he said, looking out at the instrument, nevertheless. The Virginian had forgotten that Shorty could not read. So he looked out of the window himself, and found that it was twenty-two below zero. “This is pretty good tobacco,” he remarked; and Shorty helped himself, and filled his pipe. “I had to rub my left ear with snow to-day,” said he. “I was just in time.”