"Dull Care," the Shade assured him. "Dull Care am I--and Care that's
anything but dull, into the bargain: Care that's like a keen pain in your
body, Care that lives a horror in your mind, Care that darkens your days
and flavors with bitter poison all your nights, Care that--"

But Kirkwood would not listen further. Courageously submissive to his
destiny, knowing in his heart that the Shade had come to stay, he yet found
spirit to shake himself with a dogged air, to lift his chin, set the strong
muscles of his jaw, and smile that homely wholesome smile which was his
peculiarly.

"Very well," he accepted the irremediable with grim humor; "what must be,
must. I don't pretend to be glad to see you, but--you're free to stay as
long as you find the climate agreeable. I warn you I shan't whine. Lots of
men, hundreds and hundreds of 'em, have slept tight o' nights with you for
bedfellow; if they could grin and bear you, I believe I can."

Now Care mocked him with a sardonic laugh, and sought to tighten upon his
shoulders its bony grasp; but Kirkwood resolutely shrugged it off and went
in search of man's most faithful dumb friend, to wit, his pipe; the which,
when found and filled, he lighted with a spill twisted from the envelope of
a cable message which had been vicariously responsible for his introduction
to the Shade of Care.

"It's about time," he announced, watching the paper blacken and burn in the
grate fire, "that I was doing something to prove my title to a living." And
this was all his valedictory to a vanished competence. "Anyway," he added
hastily, as if fearful lest Care, overhearing, might have read into his
tone a trace of vain repining, "anyway, I'm a sight better off than those
poor devils over there! I really have a great deal to be thankful for, now