While the physician bent over the sick man, Con
seized a package of groceries and in five minutes was drinking a cup of
his beloved English tea, as calmly as if he had been nursing a friend
with a headache.
Presently the doctor beckoned him outside. Con put down his cup
regretfully and followed.
"Young man," said the doctor, eyeing him curiously, "Do you know who
this man is you've been nursing, exposing yourself to death for?"
"Haven't an idea; I call him 'Snooks,'" said Con.
"Much better call him 'Crooks,'" said the doctor, angrily. "You've been
risking your life and that pretty pink English skin of yours for one of
the most worthless men in British Columbia; he's been a cattle rustler,
a 'salter' of gold mines, and everything that is discreditable; it makes
me indignant. He tells me he at least had the decency to warn you, when
you came here. What ever made you come on--in?"
Con stared at the doctor, a cold, a "stony British" stare. "Why,
doctor," he said, "because Snooks has been a--a--failure, I don't see
that's any reason why I should be a cad.
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