It is strange how even our clothes go back on us when we are down.
Weston I had always known as a lanky man, but about his loosely fitting
garments there had been an air of careless distinction. Now that he
was broken, they hung with such an odd perversion as to bring from its
hiding-place every sharp angle in the thin frame. The best nine
tailors living could not have clothed him better for that little
journey, nor lessened a whit the pathos of the thin arms that lay
limply across the shoulders of Tip and Arnold.

"He's a livin' skelington," old Arker whispered, as I plodded along at
his side. "Poor devil!"

"Poor devil!" said I. For looking at the almost lifeless man I thought
of my own good fortune. This morning I had envied him. Now he had
nothing but his wealth, and his hold on that was weakening fast. I had
everything--life and health, home and friends--I had Mary. As we
parted a few minutes before, up there in the woods, I had pitied him.
He had seemed so lonely, so bitter in his loneliness, and yet at heart
so good. Now his eyes half opened as they carried him on, his glance
met mine in recognition, and it seemed to me that he smiled faintly.
But it was the same bitter smile. "Poor devil!" I said to myself.

And we carried him into Mary's house.

She was waiting for us, and without a word led us upstairs to a room
where we laid him on a bed.

"I stumbled, Mark, I stumbled," he whispered, as I leaned over him.
"The fox came and I ran for it--then I fell--and then the little hound
came, and then----"