As the light from the hall lamp fell on him, I
could see how white and tired he looked. I couldn't help saying
something about it. "You do look awfully used up, Fee," I said; "I guess
you've been walking too far. Whatever made you do it? You know you can't
stand that sort of thing."
Of course I didn't say this crossly,--Fee isn't at all the sort of
person that one would say cross things to,--but you see I knew just how
miserable he'd been, and that he wasn't well yet, by any means. He
pretended to be quite well, but I noticed that he sat down lots of
times, instead of standing, as he used to, and that it was still an
effort for him to go up and down stairs. When I said that about his
being tired, he pushed his straw hat back off his face, and I could see
his hair lying wet and dark on his white forehead. "I _am_ dead tired,"
he said, wearily. "I tell you, Jack, the ascent to the third floor seems
a formidable undertaking to-night." Then he added abruptly, "_Why_ did I
do it? Because I'm _determined_"--he brought his clinched hand down on
the stoop--"that that scalawag sha'n't get hold of Phil. I suppose my
miserable old back'll take its revenge to-morrow; but I don't care,--I'd
do it again and again, if I couldn't keep them apart any other way.
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