the foothills above the Big Basin or, when the sheep had to be moved to new pasture, had spent hours in earnest talk, plodding patiently in the dust after the slow-moving flock. The long habit of silence had taken deep hold upon the Irishman, but with Ted alone he seemed willing to speak freely. It was on one of these occasions that he had given the boy the image of Saint Christopher, "For," he said, "you are like to be a great roamer and a great traveler from the way you talk, and those who carry the good Saint Christopher with them, always travel safely."
Now, as Ted thought of illness and pestilence spreading across the thinly settled state, his first and keenest apprehension was for the safety of his friend. His work done, he went quickly back to the house where the doctor was already standing on the doorstep again.
"They are not bad cases, either of them," he was saying to Ted's aunt. "If they have good care there is no danger, but if they don't—then Heaven help them, I can't."
Ted came close and pulled his sleeve.
"Tell me," he questioned quickly, "Michael Martin isn't sick, is he?"
"Michael Martin?" repeated the doctor. "A big Irishman in the cabin at the upper edge of Big Basin? Yes, he's down, sick as can be, poor fellow, with no one but a gray old collie dog, about the
