"Drop that," he drawled, "and you follow me. There's the Black Cat Tavern, but I guess that ain't your kind. Do you think you can make my shack? It's a half-mile, and pretty uppish grade."
The boy began to thank Filmer.
"Hold on!" Jock commanded. "Keep your wind for the climb, and stop gassing."
The two started on, and the climb was a silent one. Filmer appreciatively strode ahead, speechless. Drew, panting, accepted the situation gratefully, and made the most of his position and his leader's silence.
Filmer's shack was a lonely place, standing on a little pine-clad knoll facing the west. It had four small rooms, a broad piazza, and a thrifty garden at the rear.
The room assigned to Drew had a cot-bed and rough, home-made toilet accommodations that suggested comfort and a sense of refinement. When Filmer made him welcome to it, he said quietly: "Now kid, you make yourself trim and dandy. Come out on the piazza when you get good and ready, and we'll have supper out there later." It was evident that Jock's sympathies had been touched.
Once alone, Drew sank upon the low bed, and permitted the waves of weakness and weariness to engulf him.
The young face grew pinched and blue, a faintness rose and conquered him. The eyes closed, and the breath almost stopped. But it was only momentary, and with returning consciousness came renewed hope and sudden strength.
From the broad open window the boy could see the western hills, already gay with glistening autumn colour, shining under the glowing sunset sky. The tall pointed pines, standing here and there in clumps, rose sharply dark in the early gloaming of the valley.
"It's my chance," thought the boy, his eyes widening with enjoyment of the beauty; "and, by Jove, I believe I've caught on!"