Danny Lenox slept with lips parted. His brown hair—the hair that wanted to curl so badly—was well down over the brow, and the skin beneath those locks was damp. One hand rested on the tarpaulin covering of the bed, the fingers in continual motion.
"Poor kid!" Jed muttered under his breath. "Poor son of a gun! He's in a jack-pot, all right, an' it'll take all any man ever had to pull—"
"'Mornin', sonny!" he cried as Danny opened his eyes and raised his head with a start.
For a moment the boy stared at him, evidencing no recognition. Then he smiled and sat up.
"How are you, Mr. Avery?"
"Well," the other began grimly, looking straight before him, "Mr. Avery's in a bad way. He died about thirty year ago."
Danny looked at him with a grin.
"But Old Jed—Old VB," he went on, "he's alive an' happy. Fancy wrappin's is for boxes of candy an' playin' cards," he explained. "They ain't necessary to men."
"I see—all right, Jed!"
Danny stared about him at the freshness of the young day.