I was somewhat impatient with Sheener’s insistence, but I was also interested in this developing situation. “Who’s going to do his work, anyhow?” I demanded. For the first time in our acquaintance I saw Sheener look confused. “That’s all right, too,” he told me. “It don’t take any skin off of your back, long as it’s done.” In the end I surrendered. Evans kept his job; and Sheener--I once caught him in the act, to his vast embarrassment--did the janitor’s work when Evans was unfit for duty. Also Sheener loaned him money, small sums that mounted into an interesting total; and furthermore I know that on one occasion Sheener fought for him. The man Evans went his pompous way, accepting Sheener’s homage and protection as a matter of right, and in the course of half a dozen years I left the paper for other work, saw Sheener seldom, and Evans not at all. III About ten o’clock one night in early summer I was wandering somewhat aimlessly through the South End to see what I might see when I encountered Sheener. He was running, and his dark face was twisted with anxiety. When he saw me he stopped with an exclamation of relief, and I asked him what the matter was. “You remember old Bum Evans?” he asked, and added: “He’s sick. I’m looking for a doctor. The old guy is just about all in.” “You mean to say you’re still looking out for that old tramp?” I demanded. “Sure, I am,” he said hotly; “that old boy is there. He’s got the stuff. Him and me are pals.” He was hurrying me along the street toward the office of the doctor he sought. I asked where Evans was. “In my room,” he told me. “I found him on the street. Last night. He was crazy. The D. T.’s. I ain’t been able to get away from him till now. He’s asleep. Wait. Here’s where the doc hangs out.” Five minutes later the doctor and Sheener and I were retracing our steps toward Sheener’s lodging, and presently we crowded into the small room where Evans lay on Sheener’s bed. The man’s muddy garments were on the floor; he himself tossed and twisted feverishly under Sheener’s blankets. Sheener and the doctor bent over him, while I stood by. Evans waked, under the touch of their hands, and waked to sanity. He was cold sober and desperately sick. When the doctor had done what could be done and gone on his way, Sheener sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed the old man’s head with a tenderness of which I could not have believed the newsboy capable. Evans’s eyes were open; he watched the other, and at last he said huskily: “I say, you know, I’m a bit knocked up.” Sheener reassured him. “That’s all right, bo,” he said. “You hit the hay. Sleep’s the dose for you. I ain’t going away.” Evans moved his head on the pillow, as though he were nodding. “A bit tight, wasn’t it, what?” he asked. “Say,” Sheener agreed. “You said something, Bum. I thought you’d kick off, sure.”