At the edge of a gnawed hay stack stood the remnant of Sim's scant cattle herd, not half of which had "wintered through." No smoke was rising from Sim Gage's chimney.

"Feller's hopeless, that's what," complained Wid Gardner to himself.

"It gravels me plenty." A muffled voice answered his knock, and he pushed open the door.

Sim Gage was still in bed, and his bed was still on the floor.
"Come in," said he, thrusting a frowsy head out from under his blankets.

He used practically the same amount of covering about him in winter and summer; and now, as usual, he had retired practically without removing his daily clothing.