conquered his fear sufficiently to give him water occasionally, called
softly to us.

"Come and look at him," said he. "What's the matter with him?"

"He's dying!" said the cook, with a shudder.

"He can't be going to die yet!" said Bill, blankly.

As he spoke the man's eyes seemed to get softer and more life-like, and
he looked at us piteously and helplessly. From face to face he gazed in
mute inquiry, and then, striking his chest feebly with his fist, uttered
two words.

We looked at each other blankly, and he repeated them eagerly, and again
touched his chest.

"It's his name," said the cook, and we all repeated them.

He smiled in an exhausted fashion, and then, rallying his energies, held
up a forefinger; as we stared at this new riddle, he lowered it, and held
up all four fingers, doubled.

"Come away," quavered the cook; "he's putting a spell on us."

We drew back at that, and back farther still, as he repeated the motions.
Then Bill's face cleared suddenly, and he stepped towards him.

"He means his wife and younkers!" he shouted eagerly. "This ain't no Jem
Dadd!"