For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Nolan drew back as though to go away, but thought better of it, entered the little room slowly, and without waiting for an invitation, sat down in the remaining chair.

“Howdy,” he said, and smiled at Allan in a manner intended to be amiable.

“How are you?” Allan answered, striving vainly to guess what object Nolan could have had in coming here.

Nolan coughed dismally.

“You see I’m out,” he said, grinning sheepishly.

“Yes; I heard this evening that you had been parolled.”

Nolan coughed again.

“It’d have been murder to keep me in any longer,” he said. “One lung’s gone as it is. Th’ doctor told th’ board I’d be dead inside o’ six months if I wasn’t let out.”

And, indeed, as Allan looked at him more closely, he could see the change in him. He was thinner ? 108 ? and his face had a ghastly pallor, revolting to see. An experienced police officer would have recognized the prison pallor at a glance—the pallor which all criminals acquire who serve a term in jail; but to Allan it seemed proof positive of the progress of his old enemy’s disease, and his heart was stirred with pity.

“That’s too bad,” he said. “I hope you’ll get well, now you’re out again.”

Nolan shook his head lugubriously.

“Not much hope o’ that, I guess,” he answered. “Arter all, it’s no more’n I deserve fer treatin’ you th’ way I did.”

Allan stared at him in astonishment. Repentance was the last thing he had ever expected of Nolan, and he scarcely knew how to answer.

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad as that,” he managed to say, at last.

“It’s mighty kind o’ you t’ say so,” replied Nolan, humbly, “but I know better. I tell you, durin’ th’ last three months, arter I was locked up in my cell every night, I had plenty o’ time t’ think things over, an’ I begun t’ see what a blamed skunk I’d been.”

There was a whine in his voice not wholly genuine. Allan would have doubted its genuineness still more could he have seen the grimace which Nolan made at his back as he turned away to take an order. He was vaguely troubled. If Nolan was sincerely repentant, he did not wish to be unjust to him, yet, ? 109 ? at the same time, he could not wholly believe in the reality of a change so at variance with Nolan’s character. Something of this hesitation was visible in his face, as he looked up from taking the message.

“I don’t blame you fer doubtin’ me,” Nolan added. “If I was in your place, I’d kick me out.”

“Oh, I’m not going to do that,” protested Allan, laughing at the twisted pronouns. “How did you happen to come to Byers?”

Nolan’s face wrinkled a little, but the answer came readily enough.

“I’d been to Wadsworth,” he explained. “Th’ people at th’ pen. bought me a ticket an’ sent me back—but I was ashamed t’ stay there—I was ashamed fer anybody t’ see me. They all knowed what I’d done. So I thought I’d go t’ Parkersburg, where I’ve got an uncle who kin git me work, an’ give me a chance t’ earn an honest livin’.”

“And you’re going to walk?” asked Allan.

“Sure,” answered Nolan. “How else? I ain’t a-goin’ t’ jump no train—that’s agin th’ law. An’ I knows mighty well none o’ th’ trainmen ’d let me ride.”

Allan was silent a moment. He remembered vividly the time when he himself had walked from Cincinnati to Wadsworth in search of work; he remembered how long and weary each of those hundred miles had seemed. And he had been strong ? 110 ? and healthy, while Nolan was evidently weak and sick, not fit at all for such a journey.

Nolan, who had been watching Allan’s face intently, rose suddenly to his feet.

“Don’t you worry about me,” he said. “I ain’t wuth it. Besides, I’ll git along all right.”

“But maybe I can help you,” Allan began.

“No, you can’t; I won’t let you. I ain’t got that low,” and Nolan, crushing his hat fiercely down upon his head, strode to the door. “Good-bye,” he called over his shoulder, “an’ good luck.”

“Good-bye,” answered Allan, and watched him with something almost like respect until his figure was swallowed up in the darkness.

Outside in the night, Nolan was striding up and down, waving his clenched fists wildly in the air, his face convulsed with passion.

“Th’ fool!” he muttered, hoarsely. “Th’ fool! Th’ goody-goody ape! Wanted t’ help me! Oh, I couldn’t ’a’ stood it—I’d ’a’ been at his throat in a minute more. I’ll show him! I’ll show him!”

He circled the shanty cautiously until he reached a spot whence, through the window, he could see Allan bending over his key. He shook his fist at the unconscious boy in a very ecstasy of rage.

“I’ll fix ye!” he cried. “I’ll fix ye!”

He saw Allan stir uneasily in his chair, as though he had heard the threat, and for an instant he stood motionless, with bated breath, his clenched fist still ? 111 ? in the air. Then he realized the impossibility of being overheard at such a distance, and laughed weakly to himself.

“You’ve lost yer nerve, Dan,” he said. “You’ve lost yer nerve! No, I’m blamed if y’ have!” and he straightened up again and shook his fist fiercely in the air.

“Hello,” said a voice just behind him, “what’s all this about?” and a hand grabbed his wrist.

Nolan turned with a little cry of fright. He gave a gasp of relief as he recognized Nevins.

“What d’ ye want t’ scare a feller like that fer?” he demanded, wrenching his wrist loose.

“Were you scared?” asked Nevins, with a little sneer. “Lost your nerve, hey?”

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