“You would have to work. You would have to be chore-boy in a lumber camp, and play fiddle for the men when they wanted you to.”
“I'll do it,” said the cripple.
“Are you sure you could? You will have to split all the wood for the men, the cook, and the office; you will have to draw the water, and fill the lamps, and keep the camps clean. You will be paid for it, but it is quite a job. And you would have to do it well. If you did not do it well, I would discharge you.”
“I will do it!” repeated the cripple with a shade more earnestness.
“All right, then I'll take you,” replied Thorpe.
The cripple said nothing, nor moved a muscle of his face, but the gleam of the wolf faded to give place to the soft, affectionate glow seen in the eyes of a setter dog. Thorpe was startled at the change.
A knock announced the sandwiches and milk. The cripple fell upon them with both hands in a sudden ecstacy of hunger. When he had finished, he looked again at Thorpe, and this time there were tears in his eyes.
A little later Thorpe interviewed the proprietor of the hotel.
“I wish you'd give this boy a good cheap room and charge his keep to me,” said he. “He's going north with me.”
Phil was led away by the irreverent porter, hugging tightly his unstrung violin to his bosom.