"Might come in and rest awhile."
Tom hesitated a moment and then passed through the gate. The girl had run into the house.
"How are you getting along?" the young man asked as he began slowly to tramp up the steps.
"Porely, mighty porely. Thought I was gone last night—didn't sleep a wink. And I don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
"Wouldn't you like a mess of young squirrels?" Tom asked, as he sat down in a hickory rocking chair. Of late he had become interested in Wash Sanders, and had resented the neighbors' loss of confidence in him.
"Well, you might bring 'em if it ain't too much trouble, but I don't believe I could eat 'em. Don't eat enough to keep a chicken alive."
He lifted his pale hand, and with his long finger nail scratched his chin.
"What's the doctor's opinion?" Tom asked, not knowing what else to say and feeling that at that moment some expression was justly demanded of him.
"The doctors don't say anything now; they've given me up. From the first they saw that I was a dead man. Last doctor that gave me medicine was a fellow from over here at Gum Springs, and I wish I may die dead if he didn't come in one of finishin' me right there on the spot."
There came a tap at a window that opened out upon the verandah, and the young fellow, looking around, saw the girl sitting in the "best room." She tried to put on the appearance of having accidentally attracted his attention. He moved his chair closer to the window.