"What is the matter?" she repeated. "Can I be of any help?"
"No," he replied. "How can you help? My feet are raw, and my back is
nearly broken, and I am all tired out. Can you help any of these
things?"
"Well," judiciously, "I am sure it might be worse. Think of the men
who have just landed on the beach. It will take them ten days or two
weeks to back-trip their outfits as far as you have already got yours."
"But my partners have left me and gone on," he moaned, a sneaking
appeal for pity in his voice. "And I am all alone, and I don't feel
able to move another step. And then think of my wife and babies. I
left them down in the States. Oh, if they could only see me now! I
can't go back to them, and I can't go on. It's too much for me. I
can't stand it, this working like a horse. I was not made to work like
a horse. I'll die, I know I will, if I do. Oh, what shall I do? What
shall I do?"
"Why did your comrades leave you?"
"Because I was not so strong as they; because I could not pack as much
or as long. And they laughed at me and left me."
"Have you ever roughed it?" Frona asked.
"No."
"You look well put up and strong. Weigh probably one hundred and
sixty-five?"
"One hundred-and seventy," he corrected.
"You don't look as though you had ever been troubled with sickness.
Never an invalid?"
"N-no.
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