But it was not until Allan opened his eyes and smiled faintly up at them that Jack and Mary believed that he could live. They fell on their knees beside his bed, but the doctor hurried them away. “What he needs now is sleep,” he said. “Let him sleep as long as he can.” “But look at his poor face, doctor,” whispered Mary, “an’ at his hands, all tore and scratched. Do ye suppose them devils did that to him, too?” “I don’t know,” said the doctor. “Those scratches won’t hurt him; it’s that wound in the breast that’s dangerous. Now, let him sleep.” And sleep he did, all through that Christmas Day. The story of his exploit had got about, and a constant stream of railroad men came softly up the path to ask how he was doing, and to stand around afterward and discuss the story. All night he slept, with Mary watching by his bedside, and, when he opened his eyes next morning, she was still sitting there. The doctor came an hour later, looked at the wound, felt his pulse, and nodded encouragingly. “He’ll pull through all right,” he said. “He’s got a little fever, but that was to be expected. But he’s in first-class shape and will soon rally from that wound. Keep him quiet for a day or two.” Before that time, the fever had subsided, the wound was healing nicely, and the doctor pronounced his patient out of danger. “He’s pretty weak,” he said, “and must take things easy. Don’t let him strain himself any way, or he may open the wound. Keep him quiet and cheerful—his youth will do the rest.” How they vied with one another to nurse Allan back to strength again. Reddy, his old self, was the first caller, with his heart going out to the boy with a love that was well-nigh worship. “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout how it happened, Allan,” he said, wringing the hand of the white-faced boy, “but I think I can count on y’ not to be layin’ it up ag’in me.” Allan leaned back and laughed. “I think if you can cry quits, I can,” he said. How the great load rolled from off his heart as he saw Reddy, whom he had last beheld lying prone at his feet, now his genial old self again! “But, oh, Reddy, I did hate to hit you!” “Ho, ho!” cried Reddy; “if it had kilt me intirely, Oi’d ’a’ been th’ last to complain! Is it true, Allan, that I was runnin’ around with tramps?” “Yes, that’s true, Reddy.” “An’ hobnobbin’ with Dan Nolan?” “Yes.” “An’ abusin’ my missus?” “You didn’t abuse her, Reddy.” “An’ fightin’ my best friends, an’ wreckin’ railroad property, an’ actin’ generally loike a low-down haythen?” went on Reddy, rapidly. “Why, th’ only thing I can’t forgive y’ fer, Allan, is thet y’ didn’t knock me over th’ head long afore!” “I would, Reddy,” laughed Allan, “if I’d thought it would cure you.” “If it hadn’t cured me,” said Reddy, “it might ’a’ kilt me-an’ thet was what I deserved!”