Unhappiness was the portion of Billy in the days that followed. A partner who wandered about unchaperoned and eluded obstacles without relying on his sense of touch was quite beyond his comprehension. So he sulked consistently until the time came for leaving the hospital. Then he chirked up a bit, thinking, presumably, that Solomon John would resume his old habit of blind reliance upon him when once the doors had closed behind them. Poor Billy!

It was three weeks after the operation that they left, Solomon John being discharged as cured. Harvey exulted. He said it was a great operation and proved things. I thought, myself, it was a mean trick on Billy Wigg. My unprofessional diagnosis was that he was on the road to becoming a chronic melancholiac.

The partners called on Harvey soon after the departure from the hospital. They were a study in psychological antithesis; Solomon John bubbling over with boyish happiness, Billy Wigg aged with the weight of woe he was carrying. The old man was touchingly grateful, but his ally surreptitiously essayed to bite a piece out of Harvey’s leg when his back was turned. He nursed an unavenged wrong.

Months passed before we saw the pair again. We returned from our European vacation confident of finding them on the same old corner, and sure enough, they were there. But as we approached Harvey seized me by the arm.

“Good heaven’s! Bob! Look at the old man!”

“What’s wrong with him?” said I. “He looks just the same as he used to.”

“Just the same as he used to,” echoed Harvey bitterly. “Eye-shade and all. All my work gone for nothing. Poor old boy!”

“Billy Wigg’s all right, anyway,” said I, as that superior animal greeted us with every indication of excitement.

“Think so?” said Harvey. “It strikes me that it isn’t exactly welcome that he’s trying to express.” Then, in a louder voice to Solomon John, “How did it happen, old Sol?”

At the sound of his voice Solomon John whirled about and started to thrust up his shade, as if involuntarily. Then he held out tremulous hands, crying; “What! Is that you, Dr. Harvey? God bless you, sir! And is Mr. Roberts with you? Well, well, but this does me good. You’re a sight for sore eyes!”

“Not for yours, Solomon John.”

“And why not, then? Whist! I forgot,” he broke off scaredly, jerking his head toward Billy Wigg, who held us all under jealous scrutiny. “Wait a breath.” Thrusting his hand into his pocket, he whipped it out suddenly. A flight of coins scattered and twinkled and rolled diversely on the side-walk. “Dear, dear!” cried the old man cunningly. “The old fool that I am! I’ll never be rich this way. Pick them up, Billy-boy.”

Billy hated it, for picking small coins from a smooth pavement with lip and tooth is no easy job; hated worse leaving his partner to two such unscrupulous characters as he well knew us to be. But he knew his business, and set about it with all his energies.

“Whisper now,” said the senior partner as Billy swore under his breath at a slithery and elusive dime. “I’ve as fine a pair of eyes as you’d want for star-gazing at noonday.”

“Then what on earth—”

“Sh-h-h! Soft and easy! The beast’s cocking his little ear this way. Sure ’twas all on his account, sirs.”

“On Billy’s account?” we both exclaimed in a breath.

“You didn’t think I’d be faking it?” he asked reproachfully.