usual. Indeed, he spoke only two or three times between the hotel and
the pier.

"I say, Dev," was his first contribution to the conversation,
"d' you remember it was at a dock that you and I first met? It was
night, blacker than Tophet, and raining, and you came ashore wet as a
rag. You were the lonesomest, chilliest, most forlorn little tike I ever
saw; but, by the eternal, you were trying not to cry!"

"Lonesome? I rather think so!" I echoed with conviction. "Wynne and his
wife brought me over; he played poker all the way, and she read novels
in her berth. And I heard every one say that I was an orphan, and it was
very, very sad. Well, I was never lonely after that, Dunny." My hand met
his half-way.

The next time that he broke silence was upon the ferry, when he urged on
me a fat wallet stuffed with plutocratic-looking notes.

"In case anything should happen," ran his muttered explanation. I have
never needed Dunny's money,--his affection is another matter,--but he
can spare it, and this time I took it because I saw he wanted me to.

As we approached the Jersey City piers, he seemed to shrink and grow
tired, to take on a good ten years beyond his hale and hearty age. With
every glance I stole at him a lump in my throat grew bigger, and in the
end, bending forward, I laid a hand on his knee.

"Look here, Dunny," I demanded, not looking at him, "do you mean half
of what you were saying last evening--or the hundredth part? After all,
there'll be a chance to fight here before we're many months older. If