And a big man, sitting in the shelter of a screen, hitched his chair
nearer the cot, and laid both hands on Garrison's. He did not speak, but
there was a wonderful light in his eyes--steady, clear gray eyes.

"Kid," he said. "Kid."

Garrison turned swiftly. His hand gripped the other's.

"Jimmie Drake," he whispered. For the first time the blood came to his
face.



CHAPTER XIII.

PROVEN CLEAN.

Two months had gone in; two months of slow recuperation, regeneration
for Garrison. He was just beginning to look at life from the standpoint
of unremitting toil and endeavor. It is the only satisfactory
standpoint. From it we see life in its true proportions. Neither
distorted through the blue glasses of pessimism--but another name for
the failure of misapplication--nor through the wonderful rose-colored
glasses of the dreamer. He was patiently going back over his past life;
returning to the point where he had deserted the clearly defined path of
honor and duty for the flowery fields of unbridled license.

It was no easy task he had set himself, but he did not falter by the
wayside. Three great stimulants he had--health, the thought of Sue
Desha, and the practical assistance of Jimmie Drake.