"Shucks, Fred," he remarked, in a low voice, for the door between the rooms was open a trifle. "There isn't enough stuff here to feed a canary bird, let alone two human beings. Why, whatever do they live on? They must be as poor as Job's turkey. I can't just place that man, somehow; seems as if I must have known him once; but he's changed a heap. Help me skirmish around for some grub; won't you?"
Fred was perfectly willing, and proceeded to search until he had discovered part of a loaf of home-made bread, and the coffee that was so necessary to warm the poor girl. There was a strip of bacon a few inches thick, some flour, grits—and these were about all.
Just then Bristles came over to where he was putting the coffee in the pot.
"I've just remembered who that sick man is, Fred!" he said, in a low tone, but with a vein of satisfaction in it, for he had been racking his memory all the while.
"Who is he, then?" Fred asked, a bit eagerly.
"Why," Bristles went on, "you see, his name is Masterson!"
CHAPTER V
HOW GOOD SPRANG FROM EVIL
"Masterson, did you say, Bristles?" Fred asked, hurriedly, as he closed the communicating door between the two rooms, and came back to the side of his chum.