his hands on the log. His arms tightened, then his shoulders and the muscles on his back.

“Lift,” he grunted. And suddenly the log moved, came up with him as he straightened, and for a triumphant moment he stood there squarely, cradling it against him. Then out into space he went, very slowly, carrying the log which seemed lighter and lighter, seeming to melt away in his arms. He wanted to call back some word of mockery and derision to the stranger, but he was already too far away, out on the old roads that led back where he wished to be.

Everyone in the hotel was sorry to lose Mr. Cass, the manager especially, for he read the open letter on Mr. Cass’ desk saying that no further money could be remitted that year.

“What a shame. He’d been here so many years that we’d have been glad to carry him awhile until he made arrangements.”

Mr. Cass was the right sort of client—it was because of such guests that the manager had tried to keep his brother out of sight all winter.

The brother, a tough number, was considerably shaken by what had happened.

“That’s what I get for trying to be a help,” he said, “I should have known better. Both those old guys looked exactly like death itself to me.”

Published in Esquire magazine (October 1937).