He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--
"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?-- that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin' me--hey?"
"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, the doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."
"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"
"Well, you are, aren't you?"
"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."
We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone in the window. The shadow moved; it was the doctor. He hurried forward.
"Glad to make your acquaintance," said he to Pap, whom he had never seen before.
"Air ye? You wa'n't expectin' me, surely?"
"Certainly," replied the doctor, impatiently. "What man wouldn't come under such circumstances?"