"Whisky, that's what. It's a hell of a thing to say, but I can't let liquor alone when I can smell it. I'm no common hand, or I wouldn't be if I--But let that go. I can swing an axe, and I'm ready to work. That's enough. Now the question is, can you find a place for me?" Ridgeley mused a little. The young fellow stood there, statuesque, rebellious. Then Ridgeley said, "I guess I can help you out that much." He picked up a card and a pencil. "What shall I call you?" "Oh, call me Williams; that ain't my name, but it'll do." "What you been doing?" "Everything part of the time, drinking the rest. Was in a livery stable down at Wausau last week. It came over me, when I woke yesterday, that I was gone to hell if I stayed in town. So I struck out; and I don't care for myself, but I've got a woman to look out for--" He stopped abruptly. His recklessness of mood had its limits, after all. Ridgeley penciled on a card. "Give this to the foreman of No. 6. The men over at the mill will show you the teams." The man started toward the door with the card in his hand. He turned suddenly. "One thing more. I want you to send ten dollars of my pay every two weeks to this address." He took an envelope out of his pocket. "It don't matter what I say or do after this, I want that money sent. The rest will keep me in tobacco and clothing. You understand?" Ridgeley nodded. "Perfectly. I've seen such cases before." The man went out and down the walk with a hurried, determined air, as if afraid of his own resolution. As Ridgeley turned toward his desk he met Mrs. Field, who faced him with tears of fervent sympathy in her eyes. "Isn't it awful?" she said, in a half whisper. "Poor fellow, what will become of him?" "Oh, I don't know. He'll get along some way. Such fellows do. I've had 'em before. They try it a while here; then they move. I can't worry about them." Mrs. Field was not listening to his shifty words. "And then, think of his wife--how she must worry." Ridgeley smiled. "Perhaps it's his mother or a sister." "Anyway it's awful. Can't something be done for him?" "I guess we've done about all that can be done." "Oh, I wish I could help him! I'll tell Ed about him." "Don't worry about him, Mrs. Field; he ain't worth it." "Oh yes, he is. I feel he's been a good boy once, and then he's so self-accusing." Her own happiness was so complete, she could not bear to think of others' misery. She told her husband about Williams, and ended by asking, "Can't we do anything to help the poor fellow?" Field was not deeply concerned. "No; he's probably past help. Such men are so set in their habits, nothing but a miracle or hypnotism can save them. He'll end up as a 'lumber Jack,' as the townsmen call the hands in the camps." "But he isn't that, Edward. He's finer some way. You feel he is. Ask Mr. Ridgeley."