“What do you suppose she’s after?”
“Oh, she’s got some big scheme on foot, and she needs me to work it. I’m sick of her. I’m sick of the whole thing. I want to run straight. I want to be the man my poor mother thinks I am.”
“And I want to help you, Ned,” cried the sheriff. For the first time he caught the other’s hand and wrung it.
“I guess the Lord wants to help me too,” said Paisley, in a queer dry tone.
“Why—yes—of course he wants to help all of us,” said the sheriff, embarrassed. Then he frowned, and his voice roughened as he asked, “What do you mean by that?”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Paisley, smiling; “you’ve always known it. It’s been getting worse lately. I guess I caught cold. Some mornings I have to stop two or three times when I dress myself, I have such fits of coughing.”
“Why didn’t you tell, and go to the hospital?”
“I wanted to come down here. It’s so pleasant down here.”
“Good—” The sheriff reined his tongue in time, and only said, “Look here, you’ve got to see a doctor!”
Therefore the encouragement to the missionary work was embittered by divers conflicting feelings. Even Raker was disturbed when the doctor announced that Paisley had pneumonia.