So some men will do for the sake of a dead girl what they will not do for any living soul on earth.
Jim was getting into more trouble, when, a few days later, Andy took him for a walk—past the cemetery, as it happened, and, at the end of the walk and talk, he put his arm round Jim's shoulders, and said—
"An' now, Jim, it's a fair thing. Take my advice and go Out Back, and stay there till Christmas."
"I—I will," blubbered Jim, who had broken down. "I—I'll go next week, Andy; I'd go to-morrow if I had a quid or two more to git a horse."
"Go to-morrow then, Jim," said Andy, and he pressed five dusty notes into Jim's hand. Jim still blubbered, but his fingers closed over the notes like the fingers of a schoolboy, who had been given a pocketknife to comfort him or keep him quiet.
"I will, Andy; I'll go to-morrow." Then with a weak attempt to look Andy squarely in the face: "And I'll turn over a new leaf, Andy; I swear to God I will. Just you wait and see, Andy."
"And you'll go to-morrow, Jim."
"I'll go to-morrow, Andy, as true as there's a God above me."
And he kept his word. He stole another horse, and started early.
They called, or sent for, and claimed Andy Page in all times of trouble—no matter what the trouble was; and forgot him, of course, in all scenes that aped festivity. Andy being wanted meant trouble with others, just as surely as it meant trouble for poor Jim (and, of course, his family) when any one, and no matter
