came up to blow out the light she'd been cryin'. . . . That's because
Father'll have to fight, o' course."

"I wish they'd put it off till I was a man," said 'Bert stoutly.

At this point the wounded hero behaved as he always did on
discovering life duller than his hopes. He let out a piercing yell
and cried that he wanted his tea. 'Beida dropped her end of the
ambulance, seized him as he slid to the ground, shook him up, and
told him to behave.

"You can't have your tea for another hour: and what's more, if you're
not careful there won't be no amputation till afterwards, when
Mother's not lookin' an' we can get a knife off the table. You bad
boy!"

'Biades howled afresh.

"If you don't stop it,"--'Bert took a hand in threatening,--
"you won't get cut open till Monday; because 'tis Sunday to-morrow.
And by that time you'll be festerin', I shouldn't wonder."

"--And mortification will have set in," promised his sister.
"When that happens, you may turn up your toes. An' 'tis only a
question between oak an' elum."

'Biades ceased yelling as abruptly as he had started. "What's
'fester'?" he demanded.

"You'll know fast enough, when you find yourself one solid scab,"