"Why, Red," I asked, "how did this happen? You're nearly dead." "Sleepin' out done it, I guess," he answered hoarsely. "Anyhow, the crocus[10] says so, 'n' I s'pose he knows. Can't get well, neither. Be'n all over--Hot Springs, Yellarstone, Yosem'ty, 'n' jus' the other day come up from Mex'co. Cough like a horse jus' the same. But say, Cig, drink out, 'n' we'll go up to Jake's--'s too public here. I've got a lot to tell you, 'n' a big job fer you, too; 'll you come? A'right. So long, Slim; I'll be in agen ter-morrer." We were soon seated in a back room at Jake's. The boy stretched himself on a bench, and in a moment was asleep. "Purty kid, ain't he?" Red said, looking proudly at the little fellow. "An' he's a perfect bank, too, 'f you train 'im right. You oughter seen 'im over in Sac[11] the other day. He drove some o' them Eastern stiffs nearly wild with the way he throws his feet. Give 'im good weather an' a lot o' women, 'n' he'll batter his tenner ev'ry day. They get sort o' stuck on 'im somehow, 'n' 'fore they know it they're shellin' out. Quarters ev'ry time, too. He don't take no nickels--seems to hate 'em. A Los Angeles woman tried 'im once, 'n' what d' you think he did! Told 'er to put it in an orphan 'sylum. Oh, he's cute, bet cher life. But, Cig,"--and his voice dropped to a lower pitch,--"he's homesick. Think of it, will you, a hobo kid homesick! Bawls like the devil sometimes. Wants to see his ma--he's only twelve 'n' a half, see! If 'e was a homely kid, I'd kick 'im. If there's en'thing I can't stand, it's homely bawlin' kids. They make me sick. But you can't kick him--he's too purty; ain't he?" and he glanced at the slumberer. "You pull out at seven, do you?" he asked, after a pause. "Well, Cig, I'm mighty glad it's you I found at Slim's. I was hopin' I'd meet some bloke I knew, but I feared I wouldn't. They're mos' all dead, I guess. Bummin' does seem to kill us lads, don't it? Ev'ry day I hear o' some stiff croakin' or gettin' ditched. It's a holy fright. Yer bound fer York, ain't you, Cig? Well, now, see here; I've got an errand fer you. What d' you think 't is! Give it up, I s'pose! Well, you see that kid over there; purty, ain't he?" and he walked over to the bench and looked into the lad's face. "Pounds his ear [sleeps] like a baby, don't he?" and he passed his hand delicately over the boy's brow. "Now, Cig," he continued, returning to his seat, "I want--you--to--take--this--kid--back--to--the--Horn. That's where he lives. What d' you say?" There was only one thing I could say. A few months more at the outside and Red would be gone, and it was probably the last favor I could do him in payment for the many kindnesses he had shown me in the early days.