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“Pore little beggar!” said Walters softly. He tied up the boy’s head, laid him comfortably on his bunk and went out; his own horse had not been attended to yet. In about ten minutes Tony opened his eyes. He felt very sick and whirling and his head throbbed like the engine of a liner, but he knew quite well what had happened.

“This is the finish,” he thought. “I can’t stop—it’s no use. I have tried—Oh, I have! But whether the Boss. understands or not, I must go.”

He staggered to his feet and dragged himself to the door of the kitchen, where old Tobin the cook stood at the oven.

“Hullo, Cookee!” he said, and was furious with his voice for sounding so weak and shaky. Tobin turned round, a soft little old man with a fringe of white whiskers round his plump face.

“Hullo, sonny! What’s the matter with your head? Had a buster?”

“Oh, didn’t you see?” said Tony bitterly. “Everyone else did.”

“See what? What’s up?”

“Everything. I’m off, Cookee. I thought I could stick it, but I can’t. I’ll go to-night.”

Tobin gave one quick look at his huge gridiron to see that the chops could take care of themselves for a time, and went over to Tony. He laid a kindly hand on his shoulder, and the boy winced.

“What’re y’ talkin’ about, Tony?” he said. “You can’t mean y’ goin’ to leave—not a cold night like this. Why, it’s enough to kill a man. What d’y’ want to leave us for, anyhow?”

“You know well enough. I can’t stand it. Goodbye.”

“But—y’re out of y’ mind, lad. Where’s your swag?”