In a few minutes three or four of them appeared among the trees, and he recognized them as some of his friends, small ranchers who had, as often happens on the Pacific Slope, been forced to leave their lonely, half-cleared holdings and go out to earn the money that would keep them through the winter.

Two of them were apparently assisting another man along between them, and when they drew nearer Weston saw that the latter was Grenfell, the cook.
"Guess it's 'bout time somebody else took care of you," said one, when they came up.

"Sit right down," he added, neatly shaking Grenfell off his feet and depositing him unceremoniously at Weston's side.
Another of the men sat down close by, and Grenfell waved his hand to the others as they moved away.
"Bless you! You're good boys," he said.
The man who remained grinned at Weston.
"We've packed the blame old deadbeat 'most three miles.

If Tom hadn't promised to see him through I'd have felt tempted to dump him into the river.

The boys were trying to fill him up at the Sprotson House." Grenfell, who did not appear to hear him, thrust a hand into his pocket, and pulling out a few silver coins counted them deliberately.
"Two--four--six," he said.