That seemed to put a little life into Homer. He hitched himself up off'n the middle of his backbone, pulled in a yard or two of long legs and pried his eyes open. You couldn't call him handsome and prove it. He had one of those long, two-by-four faces, with more nose than chin, and a pair of inset eyes that seemed built to look for grief. The corners of his mouth were sagged, and his complexion made you think of cheese pie. But he was still alive.
"You've overlooked one," says he, and points my way. "He wouldn't do at all. Send him off, too."
"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Fales," says Leonidas. "This gentleman is a wholly disinterested party, and he's a particular friend of mine. Professor McCabe, let me introduce Mr. Homer Fales."
So I came to the front and gave Homer's flipper a little squeeze that must have done him as much good as an electric treatment, by the way he squirmed.
"If you ever feel ambitious for a little six-ounce glove exercise," says I, "just let me know."
"Thanks," says he, "thanks very much. But I'm an invalid, you see. In fact, I'm a very sick man."
"About three rounds a day would put you on your feet," says I. "There's nothing like it."
He kind of shuddered and turned to Leonidas. "You are certain that those men will not return, are you?" says he.
"Not before to-morrow at ten. You can be out then, you know," says Mr. Dodge.
"To-morrow at ten!" says Homer, and slumps again, all in a heap. "Oh, this is awful!" he groans. "I couldn't survive another!"