Hiram in the Middle West

by Burbank L. Todd

Fitting the deed to the words, he moved the man slightly. There was an impatient exclamation from the stranger; then, for an instant, his face came into the radiance of the lantern as he arose upon his elbow.

It was a wild looking and much flushed face. The eyes, seemingly half-filmed with sleep, rolled about but fastened their gaze neither on Hiram nor on anything else. It was a delirious look.

"Hey! Wake up!" urged the young farmer. "What are you doing here? Who are you?"

"Orrin Post—that's me! Orrin Post," said the stranger, loudly and promptly. Then he sank back upon the fodder again, and his mind seemed to sink, too. He only muttered impatiently when Hiram touched him again.

"Here's a pretty kettle of fish!" gasped Hiram. "What shall I do with Orrin Post? That is what I should like to be told."

He had suddenly made another discovery. There was no smell of liquor about the fellow. His breath was feverish, but not alcoholic. The man most certainly was not drunk.

This was no case of leaving the man covered up in the calf shed to "sleep it off." Whatever was the matter, Hiram was quite sure the stranger needed more attention than that. If this was the fellow Yancey Battick had pointed out to him staggering along the road to Sunnyside Farm, he should have had help right then and there—a doctor, perhaps.

First of all, Hiram decided, the sick man must be removed to the nearest comfortable place; and that place was the incubator house where he had made himself so much at home. He rolled the stranger over again and stretched out his limbs. He was quite as tall as Hiram, if not taller; but there was little flesh on his frame, and the young farmer was positive the man weighed considerably less than he did.

Hiram knelt down and lifted the sick man across his shoulder, holding both wrists as he again staggered to his feet. He picked up the lantern and started up the path beside the barn. The stranger seemed sunk in complete unconsciousness, only muttering a word now and then.

In a few minutes the young farmer had brought his burden to the shack which he had made his home since coming to Sunnyside. He laid Orrin Post—if that was his name—in the bunk and began removing his shoes and outer clothing. His garments were shabby, but of fair quality, and his underclothes were clean. He was evidently a fellow who respected himself. Perhaps he was not a tramp at all.