"No," said Peter, "you're not sick. Your eyeballs is as clean as new
milk; your skin is as pink as a spanked baby. No, you're not sick, so
to speak!"

There was another silence, Ambrose squirming a little and blushing
under Peter's calm, speculative gaze.

"Have you anything against me?" Peter finally inquired. "If you have,
out with it!"

The young man shook his head unhappily.

"Forget it then!" cried Peter with a scornful, kindly grin. "You
ornery worthless Slavi, you! You Shushwap! You Siwash! Change your
face or you'll give the dog distemper!"

Ambrose laughed sheepishly and stole a glance at his partner. There
was pain in his bold eyes, and the wish to bare it to his friend as to
a surgeon; but he dreaded Peter's laughter.

There was another long silence. The atmosphere was now much clearer.

Peter, having come to a conclusion, removed his pipe and spoke again:
"I know what's the matter with you."

"What?" muttered Ambrose.

"You've got the June fever."

Ambrose made no comment.