"Count me in," growled a bass voice from the window.
"Me too," squeaked Punks. "All as'll go say, 'Ay!'"
And an "Ay!" came from those rough voices with such a ringing burst of good will as must have startled the very birds asleep in the distant trees.
Nay! some faint echo of it may have been heard at the very gates of heaven itself. The tears rolled down Marian's cheeks. She tried to say, "God bless you!" but the tears had the right of way, and the words broke into something unintelligible.
A sudden shame came over them that they had not thought of this before. Memories of homes, of mothers, of wives, came knocking at their hearts, and would not be denied. The sleeves of rough and not over clean flannel shirts were drawn across eyes that had scorned tears, through sickness, discomfort, and disappointment.
Cutey came to the rescue.
"Gentlemen!" he said, waving his hand over the bar, "help yourselves. My j'ints are stiff, and I can't go; but I'll treat the crowd. Free drinks, gentlemen!"
And leaving his bar to the tender mercies of his thirsty friends, Cutey offered his arm to Marian, and escorted her to her own door, where he took leave of her with a low bow.
Then he went down stairs four steps at a time, lest his choice liquors should be annihilated in his absence.
It was Monday noon when they returned. Marian sat at the window in the easiest chair the house afforded, sickening with fever. She watched them coming into town with a restless, helpless anxiety. She watched them scatter to their cabins, and saw Circus Jack coming on toward the hotel alone.