He had stepped to the threshold of a small room, scarcely larger than a
closet, partitioned off from the main apartment, and holding in its dim
recess a small bed. He stood there a moment looking at the company, his
bare feet peeping from the blanket, and nodded.

"Hello, Johnny! You ain't goin' to turn in agin, are ye?" said Dick.

"Yes, I are," responded Johnny, decidedly.

"Why, wot's up, old fellow?"

"I'm sick."

"How sick!"

"I've got a fevier. And childblains. And roomatiz," returned Johnny,
and vanished within. After a moment's pause, he added in the dark,
apparently from under the bedclothes,--"And biles!"

There was an embarrassing silence. The men looked at each other, and at
the fire. Even with the appetizing banquet before them, it seemed as if
they might again fall into the despondency of Thompson's grocery, when
the voice of the Old Man, incautiously lifted, came deprecatingly from
the kitchen.

"Certainly! Thet's so. In course they is. A gang o' lazy drunken
loafers, and that ar Dick Bullen's the ornariest of all. Didn't hev
no more sabe than to come round yar with sickness in the house and no
provision. Thet's what I said: 'Bullen,' sez I, 'it's crazy drunk you