"Of course,"
he thought, "Uncle Bobbie Wicks lives there." Stooping again, he
gathered the man in his arms, and with no little effort, slowly and
painfully made his way across the street and along the sidewalk to Mr.
Wicks's home.
Uncle Bobbie was sitting before the fire, dozing over his Sunday School
quarterly, when he was aroused by the sound of heavy feet on the porch
and a strange knock, as though someone was kicking at the door. Quickly
he threw it open, and Udell, with his heavy burden, staggered into the
room.
"Found him on the church steps," gasped the printer, out of breath,
as he laid the stranger on a couch. "I'll go for a doctor," and he
rushed out into the storm again, returning some thirty minutes later
with Dr. James at his heels. They found Uncle Bobbie, who had done all
that was possible, sitting beside the still form on the couch. "You're
too late, Doc," he said. "The poor chap was dead before George left
the house."
The physician made his examination. "You're right, Mr. Wicks," he
answered, "we can do nothing here. Frozen to death. Must have died
early in the evening."
The doctor returned to his home to get what sleep he could before
another call should break his rest, and all that night the Christian
and the infidel sat together, keeping watch over the dead body of the
unknown man.
The next morning the coroner was summoned; the verdict was soon handed
in, "Death by exposure." Or the body was found a church statement that
there had been paid to the current expense fund, in the quarter ending
August first, the sum of three dollars, but the name written with lead
pencil was illegible.
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