fellow down at a camp below who had expressed a desire that Randy or Earl come to see him.
"He ain't give no name, but he's a slim-built chap an' don't look like he was cut out fer roughing it," said the messenger. "He's half sick, and he was grub-struck when me and my pard picked him up."
"A slim-built chap—" began Randy, when Earl broke in: "It's Fred Dobson, the crazy fool!"
"Fred! " cried Randy. He turned to the messenger and asked the miner to give him a better description of the boy; but this was not forthcoming, and he hurried off with the man, leaving Earl in charge of the tent.
The camp below was quarter of a mile away, over a hill thick with blackberry bushes. But something like a trail had been tramped down from the Fork, and it did not take the two long to cover the distance. They had just come over the hill in sight of several tents when Randy beheld somebody get up from a seat on a fallen log and totter toward him.
"Randy Portney!" It was Fred Dobson's voice, but so thin and hollow Randy scarcely recognized it. "Oh, how glad I am to see somebody I know!"
"Fred! How in the world did you get up here!" burst out Randy. He took the hand of the squire's son, and led the way back to the seat. "How thin and pale you look! I thought you had gone back to Basco!"
Fred heaved a deep sigh. Then he looked Randy
