He employed many laborers on the sterile waste
he called his "farm," and it occurred to me that if there really
was any work in my friend, the Tramp, which my own indolence and
preoccupation had failed to bring out, he was the man to do it.
I met him a week after. It was with some embarrassment that I
inquired after my friend, the Tramp. "Oh, yes," he said,
reflectively, "let's see: he came Monday and left me Thursday. He
was, I think, a stout, strong man, a well-meaning, good-humored
fellow, but afflicted with a most singular variety of diseases.
The first day I put him at work in the stables he developed chills
and fever caught in the swamps of Louisiana--"
"Excuse me," I said hurriedly, "you mean in Milwaukee!"
"I know what I'm talking about," returned the Doctor, testily; "he
told me his whole wretched story--his escape from the Confederate
service, the attack upon him by armed negroes, his concealment in
the bayous and swamps--"
"Go on, Doctor," I said, feebly; "you were speaking of his work."
"Yes. Well, his system was full of malaria; the first day I had
him wrapped up in blankets, and dosed with quinine.
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