On the bed lay a man, advanced in years, with hollow cheeks and every appearance of serious illness.
"I am afraid you are very sick," said Andy, gently.
"Yes; I have an attack of grip. I am afraid I will have to pass in my checks."
"Oh, it isn't as bad as that," said Andy, in a reassuring tone. "Have you no one to take care of you?"
"No; everybody here is occupied with schemes for money-making. I can't get any one to look after me for love or money."
"Then you have no near friend or relative in Tacoma?"
"No; nor, I may say, anywhere else. I have a niece, however, in Syracuse. She is at school. She is the only tie, the only one on whom I have any claim."
"If you need money—" began Andy, feeling a little delicate about offering pecuniary assistance.
"No, I have no need of that kind. I suppose I look poor, for I never cared about my personal appearance, but I am one of the largest owners of real estate in Tacoma, besides having some thousands of dollars in a San Francisco bank. But what good will it all do me? Here I am, sick, and perhaps near death."
"I will do what I can for you," said Andy. "I am myself a visitor in Tacoma. I came on business for a New York gentleman. I am authorized to buy lots in Tacoma. When you are better, I will make you an offer for your land, if you care to sell."