"Say," said Sandy, confidentially, "if you come first do you save me
a seat, and I'll do the same by you."

From that time on he decided to be a musician, and he lived on two
scanty meals a day in order to attend the concerts.

But this exalted scheme of high thinking and plain living soon became
irksome. One day, when his loneliness weighed most heavily upon him,
he was sent with a message out to the switch-station. As he tramped
back along the track he spied a familiar figure ahead of him. There
was no mistaking that short, slouching body with the peddler's pack
strapped on its back. With a cry of joy, Sandy bounded after Ricks
Wilson. He actually hugged him in his joy to be once more with some
one he knew.

Ricks glanced uneasily at the scar above his eye.

Sandy clapped his hand over it and laughed. "It's all right, Ricks; a
miss is as good as a mile. I ain't mad any more. It's straight home
with me you are goin'; and if we can get the two feet of you into me
bit of a room, we'll have a dinner that's fit for a king."

On the way they laid in a supply of provisions, Sandy even going to
the expense of a bottle of beer for Ricks.

The yellow kitten arched her back and showed general signs of
hostility when the stranger was introduced. But her unfriendly
demonstrations were ignored. Ricks was the honored guest, and Sandy
extended to him the full hospitality of the establishment.