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Stebbins looked into the Bostonian’s face, hesitated, and said with an apologetic tone in his voice:

“Well, everybody looks better one time than another. You’ve been working too hard, maybe.”

“But do I look yellow?”

“Well, to tell you the truth, Joppy, you do–yellow as a gourd–not always, just now and then when you walk fast or run upstairs.”

“I’ve been afraid of that. Was my pulse all right when you counted it last night?”

“Yes, certainly–skipped a beat now and then, but that’s nothing. I had an uncle once who had a pulse that wobbled like that. He, of course, went off suddenly; some said it was apoplexy; some said it was his heart–these doctors never agree. I wouldn’t worry about it, old man. Hold on, Pudfut, don’t walk so fast.”

Pudfut held on, and so did Schonholz and Malone, and then the four slipped behind a pile of oil barrels and concentrated their slouch hats and Schonholz slapped his thigh and said with a smothered laugh that it was “sphlendeed!” and Malone and Pudfut agreed, and then the three locked arms and went singing up the street, their eyes on Joplin’s pipe-stem legs as he trotted beside Marny on his way to the inn.

When the party reached the coffee-room Marny called Tine to his side, spread out the fingers and thumb of one hand, and that rosy-cheeked lass without the loss of a second, clattered over to the little shelf, gathered up five empty mugs and disappeared down the cellar steps. This done the coterie drew their chairs to one of Tine’s hand-scrubbed tables and sat down, all but Joplin, who kept on his way to his room. There the Bostonian remained, gazing out of the window until Johann had banged twice on his door in announcement of dinner. Then he joined the others.

When all were seated Schonholz made a statement which was followed with results more astounding to the peace of the coterie than anything which had occurred since the men came together.

“I haf bad news, boys,” he began, “offle bad news. Mine fader has wrote dat home I must. Nod anuder mark he say vill he gif me. Eef I could sell somedings–but dat ees very seldom. No, Marny, you don’t can lend me noddings. What vill yourselluf do? Starve!”

“Where do you live, Schonholz?” asked Joplin.

“By Fizzenbad.”

“What kind of a place is it–baths?”

“Yes.”

“What are they good for?” continued Joplin in a subdued tone.

“Noddings, but blenty peoples go.”

“I can tell you, Joppy,” said Pudfut gravely, with a wink at Malone. “There are two spas, both highly celebrated. Lord Ellenboro spent a month there and came back looking like another man. One is for the liver and the other for something or other, I can’t recollect what.”

“Heart?” asked Joplin.

“I don’t know.”

He didn’t,–had never heard the place mentioned until Schonholz had called its name a moment before.

Joplin played with his knife and made an attempt to nibble a slice of Tine’s toast, but he made no reply. All the fight of every kind seemed to have been knocked out of him.

“Better take Fizzenbad in, Joppy,” remarked Pudfut in an undertone. “May do you a lot of good.”

“How far is it, Schonholz?” asked Joplin, ignoring the Englishman’s suggestion.

“Oh, you leafe in de morgen and you come by Fizzenbad in a day more as do one you go oud mid.”

“No–can’t afford it.”

Here Joplin pushed back his chair, and with the remark that he thought he would go downtown for some colors, left the room.

“It’s working like a dose of salts,” cried Pudfut when the Bostonian was out of hearing. “Hasn’t said ‘epigastric nerve,’ ‘gram’ or ‘proteids’ once. Got real human in an hour. Stebbins, you’re a wonder.”

The next morning everybody was up bright and early to see Schonholz off. One of Fop Smit’s packets was to leave for Rotterdam at seven and Schonholz was a passenger. He could go by rail, but the boat was cheaper. No deceptions had been practised and no illusions indulged in as to the cause of his departure. He had had his supplies cut off, was flat broke and as helpless as a plant without water. They had all, at one time or another, passed through a similar crisis and knew exactly what it meant. A purse, of course, could have been made up–Marny even insisted on sharing his last hundred francs with him–and Mynheer would have allowed the board-bill to run on indefinitely with or without an addition to his collection, but the lad was not built along those lines.