satisfying inspiration. With them he could prove the incongruity of the
partnership that had already begun to exist between him and the
Missioner. He weighed himself, with Father Roland looking on. The scales
balanced at 132.

"And I'm five feet nine in height," he said, disgustedly; "it should be
160. You see where I'm at!"

"I knew a 200-pound pig once that worried himself down to ninety
because the man who kept him also kept skunks," replied Father Roland,
with his odd chuckle. "Next to small-pox and a bullet through your
heart, worry is about the blackest, man-killingest thing on earth,
David. See that bag?"

He pointed to one of the bulging gunny sacks.

"That's the antidote," he said. "It's the best medicine I know of in the
grub line for a man who's lost his grip. There's the making of three men
in that sack."

"What is it?" asked David, curiously.

The Missioner bent over to examine a card attached to the neck of the
bag.

"To be perfectly accurate it contains 110 pounds of beans," he answered.

"Beans! Great Heavens! I loathe them!"

"So do most down-and-outs," affirmed Father Roland, cheerfully. "That's