carriage robe, and she knew that there was a hot-water bag under
his feet. Beside him sat young Doctor Charlton, whom Jane had at
last succeeded in inducing her father to try. Charlton did not
look or smell like a doctor. He rather suggested a professional
athlete, perhaps a better class prize fighter. The weazened old
financier was gazing at him with a fascinated
expression--admiring, envious, amused.

Charlton was saying:

``Yes, you do look like a dead one. But that's only another of
your tricks for fooling people. You'll live a dozen years unless
you commit suicide. A dozen years? Probably twenty.''

``You ought to be ashamed to make sport of a poor old invalid,''
said Hastings with a grin.

``Any man who could stand a lunch of crackers and milk for ten
years could outlive anything,'' retorted Charlton. ``No, you
belong to the old stock. You used to see 'em around when you
were a boy. They usually coughed and wheezed, and every time
they did it, the family used to get ready to send for the
undertaker. But they lived on and on. When did your mother
die?''

``Couple of years ago,'' said Hastings.

``And your father?''

``He was killed by a colt he was breaking at sixty- seven.''