slow, uncertain.

And so he went on, following the little path that bordered the woods on
one hand and the fields on the other; went on until he neared the
village--and then he stopped suddenly, and turned about. Some one had
called his name.

From the field, a man climbed over the fence and came toward him. The
man's face was tanned and rugged, his form erect, and the sleeves rolled
back above the elbows displayed browned and muscular forearms. Madison
stared at the man apathetically. This was the farm of course where Pale
Face Harry boarded, and this was Pale Face Harry--but--

"Doc," said Pale Face Harry, and he shuffled his feet and looked down,
"Doc, I got something I've been wanting to say to you for a week."

Madison still gazed at him apathetically--Pale Face Harry for the moment
was as some unwarrantable apparition suddenly appearing before him.

Pale Face Harry raised his eyes, lowered them, kicked at a clod of earth
with the toe of his boot--and raised his eyes again.

"Say," he blurted out, "I'm through, Doc. I'm--I'm going to quit."

Into Madison's stumbling brain leaped and took form but one idea--and he
jumped forward, reaching savagely for Pale Face Harry's throat.

"You'd throw me, would you! You'd throw the game--would you!" he
snarled, as his fingers locked.